ready in broken jugs inside. They were good, kind girls, every
one of them,--had taken it in turn to sit up with Lois last
winter all the time she had the rheumatism. She never forgot
that time,--never once.

Later in the evening you would see a man coming along, close by
the wall, with his head down, the same Margret had seen in the
mill,--a dark man, with gray, thin hair,--Joe Yare, Lois's old
father. No one spoke to him,-- people always were looking away
as he passed; and if old Mr. or Mrs. Polston were on the steps
when he came up, they would say, "Good-evening, Mr. Yare," very
formally, and go away presently. It hurt Lois more than anything
else they could have done. But she bustled about noisily, so
that he would not notice it. If they saw the marks of the ill
life he had lived on his old face, she did not; his sad,
uncertain eyes may have been dishonest to them, but they were
nothing but kind to the misshapen little soul that he kissed so
warmly with a "Why, Lo, my little girl!" Nobody else in the
world ever called her by a pet name.

Sometimes he was gloomy and silent, but generally he told her of
all that had happened in the mill, particularly any little word
of notice or praise he might have received, watching her
anxiously until she laughed at it, and then rubbing his hands
cheerfully. He need not have doubted Lois's faith in him.
Whatever the rest did, she believed in him; she always had
believed in him, through all the dark years, when he was at home,
and in the penitentiary. They were gone now, never to come back.
It had come right. If the others wronged him, and it hurt her
bitterly that they did, that would come right some day too, she