“Mary—that’s Miss Rossiter—wanted me to git some new furniture,” she said, as they stood in the quiet room, “and I could afford it as well as not, for your gran’ther left me pretty well off, with what Mary does for me; but somehow it makes Margaret seem nigher to me to have the things she used to handle, and so I keep ’em, and sometimes when I’m lonesome for the days that are gone, and for my girl that is dead, I come up here and sit awhile and think I can see her just as she used to look when I waked her in the mornin’, and she lay there on that piller smilin’ at me like a fresh young rose, with her hair fallin’ over her pretty eyes; and then I cry and wish I had her back, though I know she’s so happy now, and some day I shall see her again, if I’m good, and I do try to do the best that I know how. Poor Maggie, dear little Maggie, dead way over the seas.” Grandma was talking more to herself than to Reinette, and the great tears were dropping from her dim old eyes, and her rough, red hands were tenderly patting the pillows, where she had so often seen the dear head of the child “dead way over the seas.” But to Reinette there was now no redness, or roughness about the hands, no coarseness about the woman, for all such minor things were forgotten in that moment of perfect accord and sympathy, and Reinette’s tears fell like rain as she bent over the hands which had touched her mother. “Blessed child,” grandma said, “I thank my God for sending you to me, and that you are good and true, like Margaret.” This was too much for the conscious-smitten Reinette, who burst out impulsively: “I’m not good; I’m not true; I’m bad and wicked as I can be, and I am going to confess it all here in mother’s room, hoping she can hear me, and know how sorry I am. I was proud and hot, and felt like fighting yesterday when I met you all, because it was so sudden, so different; and this morning I rebelled again, and wanted to scream, but I’ll never do so again, and I am going to make you so happy; and now, please, go away and leave me for a little while.” Grandma Ferguson understood her in part, and went out, leaving the girl alone in the low, humble room, which had been Margaret’s. Kneeling by the bed, and burying her face in the pillows, Reinette sobbed like a child as she asked forgiveness for all her proud rebellion against the grandmother whom in her heart she knew to be kind and loving. The prayer did her good, and as hers was an April nature, she was as bright and playful as a kitten when she went down the steep, narrow stairs, and bidding her grandmother good-night, mounted her horse and started with Phil for Mrs. Lydia Ferguson’s. They found that lady very hot and nervous over a dress which must be finished that night, and on which Anna was working very unwillingly. Through an open door Reinette caught a glimpse of a disorderly supper-table, at which a man was sitting in his shirt sleeves, regaling himself with fried cakes and raw onions.