see."

In the spacious, sunlighted chamber of her soul, devoted to the
memory of her two daughters who had died in early childhood, Mrs.
Daggett sometimes permitted herself to picture Nellie and Minnie,
grown to angelic girlhood, and keeping her company about her lonely
household tasks in the intervals not necessarily devoted to harp
playing in the Celestial City. She laughed softly to herself as she
filled two pies with sliced sour apples and dusted them plentifully
with spice and sugar.

"I'd admire to see papa argufying with that sweet girl," she observed
to the surrounding silence. "Papa certainly is set on having his own
way. Guess bin' alone here with me so constant, he's got kind of
willful. But it don't bother me any; ain't that lucky?"

She hurried her completed pies into the oven with a swiftness of
movement she had never lost, her sweet, thin soprano soaring high in
the words of a winding old hymn tune:

Lord, how we grovel here below,
Fond of these trifling toys;
Our souls can neither rise nor go
To taste supernal joys! ...

It was nearly two o'clock before the big brown horse, indignant at
the unwonted invasion of his afternoon leisure, stepped slowly out
from the Daggett barn. On the seat of the old-fashioned vehicle, to
which he had been attached by Mrs. Daggett's skillful hands, that
lady herself sat placidly erect, arrayed in her blue and white