guess things here are about the same as when you left 'em." Tom
spoke with pride and satisfaction as he paid the driver, took
Barbara's suitcase, and opened the gate for her.

The girl turned from her first long, appraising gaze at the modest
home. No change, indeed! The paint on the house was peeling,
gutters had rusted out, some of the porch flooring had rotted
through, the yard was an unkempt tangle of matted grass and weeds
and neglected shrubbery. The sight of it was like a stab to her,
for she remembered the place as it had been, and the shock was
akin to that of seeing a loved one in the garb of a tramp. But she
smiled up at the gray face above her--Tom, too, was as seedy as
the premises--and she nodded.

"It hasn't changed a mite," she said, bravely.

A moment later she paused upon the threshold, tense, thrilled,
apparently speechless. Tom was reminded of a trim little wren
poised upon the edge of its nest. This time it was more difficult
to counterfeit an exclamation of joy, but the catch in "Bob's"
voice, the moisture in her eyes, was attributed by her father to
gladness at the sight of old familiar things. This was pay for the
thought and the love and the labor expended, truly.

"Why, everything is right where it belongs! How _wonderfully_
you've kept house! You must have a perfect jewel of a girl, dad!"

"I let Aunt Lizzie go 'bout three years back," Tom explained. "She
got--shiftless and I been sort of batching it since. Clean,
though, ain't it?"