[Illustration]

Soothed by her soft hand smoothing his hair, and exhausted by the heat
and his violent grief, he fell asleep at last. It was almost dark when
he awoke and sat up.

"I must leave you at the next station," Mrs. Estel said, "but you are
going only a few miles farther. Maybe I shall see you again some day."
She left him to fasten her shawl-strap, but presently came back,
bringing a beautifully illustrated story-book that she had bought for
the little daughter at home.

"Here, Steven," she said, handing it to him. "I have written my name
and address on the fly-leaf. If you ever need a friend, dear, or are
in trouble of any kind, let me know and I will help you."

He had known her only a few hours, yet, when she kissed him good-by
and the train went whirling on again, he felt that he had left his
last friend behind him.

When one is a child a month is a long time. Grandfathers say, "That
happened over seventy years ago, but it seems just like yesterday."
Grandchildren say, "Why, it was only yesterday we did that, but so
much has happened since that it seems such a great while!"

One summer day can stretch out like a lifetime at life's beginning. It
is only at threescore and ten that we liken it to a weaver's shuttle.

It was in July when old John Dearborn drove to the station to meet the