After many years spent abroad Mr. Thornton had returned to his native city. This neglected cottage, along with other pieces of property, had fallen into his hands at the death of an old aunt, and with the rest had much needed his attention for some time past. It was an old-fashioned house with low ceilings, small windows, wide fireplaces and broad hearthstones. Outside, there were broad verandas, a garden full of roses, shrubs and vines; a disorderly mass now, but capable of being a delight. True to himself, he immediately set to work—in imagination—transforming the shabby house into a thing of beauty. His artistic eye could see how charming the parlor would be with the sunlight and the roses peeping through white-curtained windows, the lawn a velvety green, cleared of all but one grand oak, and the garden with trained vines and trimmed walks. What wonders might not paper, and paint, and pruning-knife accomplish! He grew enthusiastic over it as he went on. But what of it all when it was finished? It would be easy to give it into the hands of an agent to dispose of, and so have no further trouble about it, but he had an impression that in some way this house might be used for the comfort and help of some one in the Father's family, and he resolved to dedicate it to that purpose. He sat on the porch and thought it all out while the shadows of the vines danced over him and the morning-glories nodded approvingly. Yes, he would make the place fresh and fair, and it should be to refresh the heart of some old saint who was homeless and friendless, with nothing left but memories of the past and hopes of the future. "She will train these vines into orderliness and sit with her knitting in this shade," he said to himself, as he turned the key in lock and went his way. So eager was he to have the work commenced that he brought out his knife and clipped disorderly branches from the sweet-brier that overhung the gateway as he passed through. The vacant cottage stood on a pleasant street that stretched itself on out into the country, and Mr. Thornton, lured by the beauty of the autumn days and the flaming colors hung out on a piece of woods not far distant, turned his steps thitherward, pausing a moment on the brow of the hill to take in all the beauty. He was rewarded by a tableau of surprising loveliness. Nature, growing lavish with the dying year, had again festooned the old tree trunks and brown limbs with royal hangings. Red maples, yellow elms and the pine's dark green, wove such tapestry of gorgeous tints and rare blending as Persian looms might assay in vain to imitate.