A rush of tears was her answer, as the girl caught the toil-stained hand and carried it passionately to her lips. "Of course I know. Mother forgive me; I was only 'funnin' as little Jimmie Clark says." "But I am not 'funnin,'" replied the other. "I'm awfully in earnest." There seemed to be a hidden meaning in her words and Amy looked at her anxiously. "I do not understand why you think that I should leave you," she said earnestly. "Because--because--I--this life must be so degrading to you. You could live so differently at home. You must feel this keenly." Amy looked at her steadily. "That is not your reason, Mother," she said gently. "You know that a woman degrades herself when she does nothing useful, and that I count my present place and work, far above my old life at home. Why just think"--with a quiet smile--"John said last night that he couldn't tell my biscuits from yours. And wasn't the dinner all right to-day? And isn't that a beautiful patch?" She held up her work for inspection. The other shook her head, while she smiled in answer. "I know, dear girl, you do beautifully; but that's not it. There is your father and mother and brother; you know you can't stay away from them always." Amy's face grew troubled, while her hand nervously sought the letter hidden in her bosom. "You do not understand, mother," she replied slowly; "My people do not want me to come home. My father said I should not, until--until--" she hesitated. "But your father has surely forgotten his anger by this time, and when he sees you he will be glad to forgive and take you back." The brown eyes looked at her in startled surprise. "When he sees me?" But the other continued hurriedly, "And there are the letters you know." Amy's face grew rosy. "Why the letters?" she murmured in a low voice. "Because he loves you, dear, don't you see?" "He has never told me so." "Not in words perhaps." Amy was silent. "He will come for you one of these days and then you will go with him." The girl sadly shook her head, and turning her face, looked away across the fields again, where silent, patient John sturdily followed his team. The shadow of the big sycamore was stretching across the barn lot almost to the gate, where the cows stood watching for the boy to come and let them in; a troop of droning bees were paying their last visit for the day to the peach-tree, that flung its wealth of passionate blossoms almost within reach of the porch, and over the blue distant woods the last of the feathery banks of mist hung lazily, as though tangled in the budding branches, reluctant to say good-night. Suddenly leaving her chair, Amy threw herself on the floor and burying her face in the older woman's lap, burst into tears. Anna's own eyes were wet as she softly smoothed the brown hair of the girl she had taken to her mother's heart. "You do love him, don't you dear?"