Where a ray of light can enter the future, a child's hope can find a
way--a way that nothing less airy and spiritual can travel. By the time
they reached their own door Fleda's spirits were at par again.

"I am very glad we have got home, aren't you, grandpa?" she said as she
jumped down; "I'm so hungry. I guess we are both of us ready for supper,
don't you think so?"

She hurried up stairs to take off her wrappings and then came down to the
kitchen, where standing on the broad hearth and warming herself at the
blaze, with all the old associations of comfort settling upon her heart,
it occurred to her that foundations so established _could not_ be shaken.
The blazing fire seemed to welcome her home and bid her dismiss fear; the
kettle singing on its accustomed hook looked as if quietly ridiculing the
idea that they could be parted company; her grandfather was in his
cushioned chair at the corner of the hearth, reading the newspaper, as she
had seen him a thousand times; just in the same position, with that
collected air of grave enjoyment, one leg crossed over the other, settled
back in his chair but upright, and scanning the columns with an intent but
most un-careful face. A face it was that always had a rare union of
fineness and placidness. The table stood spread in the usual place, warmth
and comfort filled every corner of the room, and Pleda began to feel as if
she had been in an uncomfortable dream, which was very absurd, but from
which she was very glad she had awoke.

"What have you got in this pitcher, Cynthy?" said she. "Muffins!--O let me
bake them, will you? I'll bake them."