Then Charity bethought her that the old dame had scarcely tasted food for days, and looking upon her, she saw that her eyes waxed dim and her countenance pale, and a great fear came over the child’s heart; and setting aside her wheel, she ran fast to farmer Jocelin’s, and begged a cup of honey and a pitcher of sweet milk, telling of the strange disorder that possessed Dame Margery. As she went homeward, Master Lawrence ran from his work in the field and bore the pitcher of milk, and comforted her with hopes that her grandam was less ill than she feared. Without question Margery partook of the milk and honey; and when Lawrence brought sticks and logs and heaped the fire, she laid her withered hand on his head and said, “Thou art a kind boy and good.” She then took a key from her bosom and told Charity to unlock the chest and bring forth blankets—as many as would keep her warm. “Surely, grandam, thou art distraught,” said Charity, as she hastened to obey. But the sweet smile of intelligence that met her inquiring glance belied her fears; and as she wrapt the warm covering about the withered form, she said, “Nay, child, I am sane at last—but too late.” At midnight she ceased to speak or to be conscious. Kind hands presently removed the thick covering, and spread over her a dainty white sheet; but she was warm enough; others brought from the loft the boards of seasoned walnut wood, and the next midnight Charity and Wolf-slayer—the one at the head and the other at the feet, watched by the old dame’s coffin. The following day came the miller with Lily-face harnessed in his little cart; he went forward, and a train of neighbors followed—amongst them Charity, sorrowfulest of all. When the summer came, she planted bright blossoming shrubs about the grave, and never in her life had Margery half so pretty a house as this narrow one. The old house was given up to the rats and the winds, after the removal of the cheat, and the clock, and the hanks of yarn that hung all along the rafters. In course of time it fell into a heap; and one day, as Charity, who dwelt not far away, sat on the heap of stones where the hearth-stone had been, she saw a fair-faced youth searching up and down the lanes, over the meadows, and through the hedges hard-by, as though he missed something; but when he saw the girl, he left searching and bent his steps toward her, and as he came near she knew him for Master Lawrence—well grown, but with something of the boyish look and manners yet. The prettiest of all the lambs of the flock was gone, and though he had gone over all the pastures, he could not find it. The heart of Charity was touched, and leaving her sorrowful musing, she joined in the search. Whether the stray lamb was found I know not, but as Charity crossed the fields to go homeward under the twilight’s reddening wing, her hair was full of daffodils and daisies, and a flush of wildering happiness was on her cheek, that had never been there before.