winter struggled by, and another spring, and when summer came
Margaret found that it was almost impossible to break away from her
increasing responsibilities.

But on a fragrant, soft October day she found herself getting off
the early train in the little station; and as a big man waved his
hat to her, and they turned to walk down the road together, they
smiled into each other's eyes like two children.

"Were you surprised at the letter?" said John.

"Not so much surprised as glad," said Margaret, coloring like a
girl.

They presently turned off the main road, and entered a certain gate.
Beyond the gate was an old, overgrown garden, and beyond that a
house--a broad, shabby house; and beyond that again an orchard, and
barns and outhouses.

John took a key from his pocket, and they opened the front door.
Roses, looking in the back door, across a bare, wide stretch of
hall, smiled at them. The sunlight fell everywhere in clear squares
on the bare floors. It brightened the big kitchen, and glinted in
the pantry, still faintly redolent of apples stored on shelves. It
crept into the attic, and touched the scored casement where years
ago a dozen children had recorded their heights and ages.

Margaret and John came out on the porch again, and she turned to him
with brimming eyes. It suddenly swept over her, with a thankfulness
too deep for realization, that this would be her world. She would