the streets of Cleveland a few short months before. But great as was the change in Amy's outward appearance, the change within was even greater. She was no longer the thoughtless, proud, pleasure-loving belle that her parents had trained; nor was she the hard, reckless, hopeless creature that the world had made. But she was a woman now, with a true woman's interest and purpose in life. The shallow brilliance of the society girl had given place to thoughtful earnestness, and the dreary sadness of the outcast had changed to bright hopefulness. One warm day in June, Mrs. Barton laid the last neatly ironed garment on the big pile of clothes nearby, and noisily pushing her irons to the back of the stove, cried, "Thank goodness, that's the last of that for this week." And "Thank goodness, that's the last of that," exclaimed Amy, mimicking the voice of her friend as she threw out the dishwater and hung the empty pan in its place. Anna wiped the perspiration from her steaming face. "Come on; let's get out of this Inferno for a while and do our patching in the shade. I shall melt if I stay here a minute longer." And the two were soon seated in their low chairs on the cool porch, with a big basket of mending between them. "Hello, there's our man back from town already," suddenly exclaimed Anna a few minutes later, as her husband drove into the barnyard; then with a mischievous twinkle in her blue eyes, she called, "Hurry up, John, Amy wants her letter." John smiled in his quiet way as he came up to the porch and handed the girl an envelope with the Boyd City postmark. Then the old people both laughed at the other's pretty confusion when Anna, rising, said in her teasing voice, "Come on hubby, I'll fix your dinner. We've kept it warm. Can't you see the selfish thing wants to be alone with her treasure?" But when Mrs. Barton returned to her mending, after a long talk with her husband, her jolly face wore an expression of seriousness that was unusual, and she failed to notice that Amy's hands were idle and her work was lying untouched in her lap as she sat looking wistfully far away across the sunlit meadows and pastures. Both took up their tasks in silence and plied their needles with energy, while their thoughts were far away; but one thought of a great city in the far-away east; the other of a bustling mining town in the nearer west. At last Anna spoke with a little sigh: "Amy dear, I suppose you will be leaving us one of these days before long." The girl answered with a loving smile: "Are you so tired of me that you are going to send me out into the world again?" "No, no, dear. You have a home with John and me as long as you live. Surely you know that, don't you, Amy dear?" There was a wistful note in the kind voice, and dropping the stocking she was darning, Anna leaned forward and placed her hand on the arm of Amy's chair.