lay her sister Rejoice, in a lace wrapper, such as Miss Vesta had read
about once in a fashion magazine; all lace, creamy and soft, with
delicate ribbons here and there. There she lay; and yet--was it she?
Miss Vesta tried hard to give life to this image, to make it smile
with her sister's eyes, and speak with her sister's voice; but it had
a strange, shadowy look all the time, and whenever she forced the
likeness of Rejoice into her mind, somehow it came with the old
surroundings, the little white bed, the yellow-washed walls, the old
green flag-bottomed chair on which the medicine-cups always stood. But
all the other things might be hers, just by Melody's singing. By
Melody's singing! Miss Vesta stood very still, her face quiet and
stern, as it always was in thought, no sign of the struggle going on
within. The stranger was very still too, biding his time, stealing an
occasional glance at her face, feeling tolerably sure of success, yet
wishing she had not quite such a set look about the mouth.

All by Melody's singing! No effort, no exertion for the child, only
the thing she loved best in the world,--the thing she did every day
and all day. And all for Rejoice, for Rejoice, whom Melody loved so;
for whom the child would count any toil, any privation, merely an
added pleasure, even as Vesta herself would. Miss Vesta held her
breath, and prayed. Would not God answer for her? She was only a
woman, and very weak, though she had never guessed it till now. God
knew what the right thing was: would He not speak for her?

She looked up, and saw Melody coming down the road, leading a child in
each hand. She was smiling, and the children were laughing, though
there were traces of tears on their cheeks; for they had been
quarrelling when Melody found them in the fields and brought them
away. It was a pretty picture; the stranger's eyes brightened as he