mother dear," she whispered. Not often had any seen those brave eyes dim
with tears. Not often since that day when they had carried her mother
out from the Manse and left her behind with the weeping, clinging
children, and even now she hastily wiped the tears away, chiding herself
the while. "I never saw HER cry," she said to herself, "not once, except
for some of us. And I will try. I MUST try. It is hard to give up," and
again the tears welled up in the brave blue eyes. "Nonsense," she cried
impatiently, sitting up straight, "don't be a big, selfish baby. They're
just the dearest little darlings in the world, and I'll do my best for
them."

Her moment of self-pity was gone in a flood of shamed indignation.
She locked her hands round her knees and looked about her. "It is a
beautiful world after all. And how near the beauty is to us; just over
the fence and you are in the thick of it. Oh, but this is great!" Once
more she rolled in an ecstasy of luxurious delight in the clover and lay
again supine, revelling in that riot of caressing sounds and scents.

"Kir-r-r-ink-a-chink, kir-r-r-ink-a-chink--"

She sprang up alert and listening. "That is old Charley, I suppose, or
Barney, perhaps, sharpening his scythe." She climbed up the conveniently
jutting ends of the fence rails and looked over the field.

"It's Barney," she said, shading her eyes with her hand; "I wonder he
does not cut his fingers." She sat herself down upon the top rail and
leaned against the stake.

"My! what a sweep," she said in admiring tones as the young man swayed
to and fro in all the rhythmic grace of the mower's stride, swinging