was not so attractive as in summer. Yet it was a cozy looking
house with the early lamplight shining through the kitchen window
and across the porch as Nan approached, swinging her schoolbooks.

Papa Sherwood called it, with that funny little quirk in the
corner of his mouth, "a dwelling in amity, more precious than
jewels or fine gold."

And it was just that. Nan had had experience enough in the
houses of her school friends to know that none of them were homes
like her own.

All was amity, all was harmony, in the little shingled cottage on
this short by-street of Tillbury.

It was no grave and solemn place where the natural outburst of
childish spirits was frowned upon, or one had to sit "stiff and
starched" upon stools of penitence.

No, indeed! Nan had romped and played in and about the cottage
all her life. She had been, in fact, of rather a boisterous
temperament until lately.

Her mother's influence was always quieting, and not only with her
little daughter. Mrs. Sherwood's voice was low, and with a dear
drawl in it, so Nan declared.

She had come from the South to Northern Illinois, from
Tennessee, to be exact, where Mr. Sherwood had met and married
her. She had grace and gentleness without the languor that often