Was any one in distress, in perplexity, in trouble; there was no counselor so wise, discreet, trustworthy, as Mrs. Blossom, who held half the village secrets, and had served as a peacemaker times without number. Was there a bride to be dressed; no one could do it so well as Miss Silence or Mrs. Patience. Was any one sick; no nurses were as tender and skillful and tireless as they. Did the shadow of death rest over a home; no voices could speak words of sweeter comfort to the dying, no other’s presence was so unobtrusive, so helpful in the house of bereavement. Indeed, few were the families in that little community to whom they were not bound by the cords of a common sympathy in some hour of joy or grief. And Rose was not the only one who often wondered how with all the calls upon them they still managed to accomplish so much, and with a manner so unhurried. “I don’t see how you ever do it,” Rose exclaimed one day. “It’s the busy people who find not only the most time but the most happiness,” was Silence Blossom’s cheery answer. And realizing, as she well did, how much more of real happiness there was in the modest Blossom home than in the big Fifield house, where no one ever thought of going to ask a service, and every life was wholly self-centered, Rose could not but admit that this was true. “I don’t see what happiness you could find in sitting up all night with Aunt Polly Brown,” she protested. “I’m sure I never want to go where there’s sick people. I hope I’ll never be asked to.” Already in that home where thoughtfulness for others was part of the daily life, and interest in any who were suffering a matter of course, it had come about naturally that Rose should be sent with a handful of flowers, or some dainty for a sick neighbor, or was asked to call at the door with a message of inquiry. So the next day she took it as a matter of course when Miss Silence asked her to take a bowl of chicken broth to Aunt Polly Brown. “Take it right in to Aunt Polly,” said the young woman who opened the door. “She’s in the bedroom right off the sitting-room.” Rose hesitated. She would have refused if she had known exactly how to do so. As it was, the bowl trembled a little as she walked through into the bedroom, where on a high four-post bedstead, under a “blazing star” quilt, Aunt Polly lay, a ruffled night cap surrounding her shrunken face. “Well, now,” as Rose told her errand, “it was reel kind of Silence Blossom to send the broth. I was just thinkin’ that a taste o’ chicken broth would relish. Sit down, won’t ye,” with a wistful accent, “and tell me what’s goin’ on? Mary Jane never knows nothin’. Mebby I ain’t goin’ to get well, but ’tany rate I like to know what folks is doin’.”