the singer lady as she rose from the steps upon which Doctor Tom
kept his seat and puffed a ring of his cigar smoke at his mother
daringly.

"No, honey-bird, you've had a long day since your sun-up breakfast
and I'll excuse you. I'd LET Tom Mayberry go only I have to make him
stay to keep care of you. Put that lace fascination around your
throat if a breeze blows up! Tom, try to make out, with Elinory's
help, to bring a fresh bucket of water from the spring for the
night. Good-by, both of you; I'm a-going to bring you a blessing!"

"Yourself, mother," called the Doctor after her.

"Honey-fuzzle," called Mother back from the gate. "Better keep it,
son, you'll need it some day."

"Was there ever, ever anybody just like her?" asked Miss Wingate, as
she sank back on the step beside the Doctor.

"I think not," he answered with a hint of tenderness in his voice;
"but then, really, Mother is one of a type. A type one has to get
across a continent from Harpeth Hills to appreciate. She's the
result of the men and women who blazed the wilderness trail into
Tennessee, and she has Huguenot puritanism contending with cavalier
graces of spirit in her nature."

"Well, she's perfectly darling and the little town is just an
exquisite setting for her. Do you know what this soft moonlight
aspect of Providence reminds me of, with those tall poplars down the
Road and the wide-roofed houses and barns? The little village in