CHAPTER X.

ROBERT GLENDENNING.


Sara rose, with the now sleeping baby in her arms, and stood with the
firelight playing over her noble young form, and with something--was it
the firelight too?--flushing her sweet, sensitive face. She had no idea
what a picture she made, nor how fair she appeared in the eyes of the
young man in the doorway; for her thoughts were full of chagrin at what
seemed the untidiness of the room, with baby's clothes and the
children's books scattered about, and the fact that she had on an old,
worn dress, instead of the Boston cashmere. For she did not realize that
our most beautiful moments come from thoughts within, and are quite
independent of dress and adornment, and that to-night the struggle she
had been through made her expression so lovely, she had never been more
attractive. She held out the hand that could best be spared from the
little one's support, and said cordially,--

"I'm very glad to see you, Mr. Glendenning; are your aunt and uncle
here?"

"No, Miss Olmstead; I left them in Boston, and just ran down for a day
or two, before I go West once more. I--had business."

She saw him seated before she stepped to the alcove bed to lay the baby
down, then, coming back, took a seat on the other side of the fireplace,