When he paused, there was a deep-drawn breath, a sigh from hearts surcharged with feeling, and Lisa, who had drawn closer and closer to the piano, stood there now, one hand leaning on Mr. Man’s shoulder and the tears chasing one another down her cheeks. ‘It hurts me here,’ she sighed, pressing her hand to her heart. He rose presently and left the room without a word, while the children prepared for home-going with a subdued air of having assisted at some solemn rite. When Mistress Mary went out on the steps, a little later, he was still there. ‘It is the last time! Auf wiedersehen!’ he said. ‘Auf wiedersehen,’ she answered gently, giving him her hand. ‘Have you no Thanksgiving sermon for me?’ he asked, holding her fingers lingeringly. ‘No child in all your flock needs it so much.’ ‘Yes,’ said Mary, her eyes falling, for a moment, beneath his earnest gaze; but suddenly she lifted them again as she said bravely, ‘I have a sermon, but it is one with a trumpet-call, and little balm in it. “Unto whomsoever anything is given, of him something shall be required.”’ When he reached the corner of the street he stopped, but instead of glancing four ways, as usual, he looked back at the porch where Mistress Mary stood. She carried Jenny Baker, a rosy sprig of babyhood, in the lovely curve of her arm; Bobby Baxter clasped her neck from behind in a strangling embrace; Johnny, and Meg, and Billy were tugging at her apron; and Marm Lisa was standing on tiptoe trying to put a rose in her hair. Then the Solitary passed into the crowd, and they saw him in the old places no more. XIII LEAVES FROM MISTRESS MARY’S GARDEN