Abbie looked at the beautifully engraved document and a warm glow suffused her face. Was it as easy as this? Did this little scrap of paper mean rest and the spreading of wings, and freedom for her mother? Then she caught her breath. She hadn't any brother in the feed business---nor anywhere else, for that matter. How would she get the money? She had only her salary; her mother earned little or nothing--the interest on the mortgage would be due in a day or so; thank God it was nearly paid off. Then her heart rose in her throat. Mr. Taylor! Why he was so kind she never knew--but he was. But if he insisted as he had with the store and the position in the post-office! No--he had done too much already. Besides, she could never repay him if anything went wrong. No--this was not her chance for freedom. Abbie handed the certificate back. “Queer way of making money,” was all she said as she reached for her hat and shawl, and went home to dinner. That evening after supper, the two crooning over the fire, Abbie talked it over with her mother--not the stock--not a word of that--but of how Maria had made a lot of money, and how she wished she had a little of her own so she could make some, too. This the mother retailed, the next morning, to her neighbor, who met the expressman, who thereupon sent it rolling through the village. In both its diluted and enriched form the neighbor had helped. The story was as follows: “That Boston girl who was boardin' up to Skitson's had a thousand dollars in the bank-made it all in a month--so Abbie Todd, who knew her, said. It was a dead secret how she made it, but Abbie said if she had a few hundred dollars she could get rich, too. Beats all how smart some girls is gettin' to be nowadays.” The next morning Mr. Taylor called for his mail. He generally sent a boy down from the mill, but this time he came himself. “If you see anything lying around loose, Miss Abbie, where you can pick up a few dollars--and you must now and then--so many people going in and out from Boston and other places--and want a couple of hundred to help out, let me know. I'll stake you, and glad to.” In answer, Abbie passed his mail through the square window. “Thank you, Mr. Taylor,” was all she said. “I won't forget.” Hiram fingered his mail and hung around for a minute. Then with the remark: “Guess that expressman was lying--I'll find out, anyway,” he got into his buggy and drove away. “He'll _stake_ me, will he?” said Abbie thoughtfully. “That's what the feed man did for Maria's friend.” With the stake she could get the stock, and with the stock the clouds would lift! Perhaps her turn was coming, after all. Then she resumed her work pigeon-holing the morning's mail. One was from Keep & Co., judging from the address in the corner, and was directed to Maria Furgusson, care Miss Skitson--a thick, heavy letter. This she laid aside.