Winter came; and the deep snows of New England drifted over the paling of Simon Gray’s new house, and filled the yard, where nobody broke a path. Winds blew, and scattered from the bared road side sand and gravel over the white mantle, and still it lay unbroken, and where the eaves dropped it froze. The threshold was ice, and the roof and windows hung with icicles. Simon passed one day, and paused and looked at the place earnestly. A little boy who watched him, for Simon had now become an object of marvel to the little folk, said that Simon Gray drew his sleeve across his eyes. The lad wondered if it was not because his house was not finished before the snow set in. Poor Simon! He was no poet, but the sullied snow had given him other and more bitter thoughts than that! Spring opened. The strengthening sun melted down the bank of snow before Simon Gray’s new house, and the winter-hid shavings and bits of brick, and scraps of mortar, peeped out—last year’s mementoes of the unfinished work, preserved beneath the bank to tell their story over again in the new year. And now a great surprise had taken the village; and the envious wondered how _that_ family, meaning Margaret’s poor mother, and her father, bowed with more than the weight of years, could have held up their heads as long as they did. The doctor, and the truly worthy and pious minister, vied with each other in the constancy and frequency with which they visited Chestnut Farm-house. Simon went at last also, for the minister took him there. If he went at all disposed to be unforgiving, he came away melted and subdued. His heart was lighter too; for he had performed a duty which all owe who dare to say in their prayers “forgive us—_as we forgive_.” A long train wound one day, just as the violets were opening, into the village grave-yard. Simon Gray was there, and it was observed, as they passed his new house, for the train were all on foot, that his companion had much labor to bear him up. But he was not a mourner as one without hope; for his arms had supported Margaret when she resigned her soul to Him who forgiveth sin, and heareth those who call upon Him. He never spoke of her after while he lived; and he never would hear when her name was mentioned. Some people felt, and others affected surprise that he was present at all at the funeral—but Simon noticed neither. He was simply following the dictates of an affection too virtuous to have permitted him to sacrifice his self-respect had she lived—too charitable to permit one who was once loved to die unforgiven of man, since the Master received her—or to die unloved of a fellow-mortal, since while we were yet sinners Christ died for us; and greater love can none show than this.