That night at tea, during her handmaiden’s temporary absence, Miss Harriet announced, as if by way of apology, that she thought Martha was beginning to understand something about her work. “Her aunt was a treasure, she never had to be told anything twice; but Martha has been as clumsy as a calf,” said the precise mistress of the house. “I have been afraid sometimes that I never could teach her anything. I was quite ashamed to have you come just now, and find me so unprepared to entertain a visitor.” “Oh, Martha will learn fast enough because she cares so much,” said the visitor eagerly. “I think she is a dear good girl. I do hope that she will never go away. I think she does things better every day, cousin Harriet,” added Helena pleadingly, with all her kind young heart. The china-closet door was open a little way, and Martha heard every word. From that moment, she not only knew what love was like, but she knew love’s dear ambitions. To have come from a stony hill farm and a bare small wooden house, was like a cave-dweller’s coming to make a permanent home in an art museum, such had seemed the elaborateness and elegance of Miss Pyne’s fashion of life; and Martha’s simple brain was slow enough in its processes and recognitions. But with this sympathetic ally and defender, this exquisite Miss Helena who believed in her, all difficulties appeared to vanish. Later that evening, no longer homesick or hopeless, Martha returned from her polite errand to the minister, and stood with a sort of triumph before the two ladies, who were sitting in the front doorway, as if they were waiting for visitors, Helena still in her white muslin and red ribbons, and Miss Harriet in a thin black silk. Being happily self-forgetful in the greatness of the moment, Martha’s manners were perfect, and she looked for once almost pretty and quite as young as she was. “The minister came to the door himself, and returned his thanks. He said that cherries were always his favorite fruit, and he was much obliged to both Miss Pyne and Miss Vernon. He kept me waiting a few minutes, while he got this book ready to send to you, Miss Helena.” “What are you saying, Martha? I have sent him nothing!” exclaimed Miss Pyne, much astonished. “What does she mean, Helena?” “Only a few cherries,” explained Helena. “I thought Mr. Crofton would like them after his afternoon of parish calls. Martha and I arranged them before tea, and I sent them with our compliments.” “Oh, I am very glad you did,” said Miss Harriet, wondering, but much relieved. “I was afraid”— “No, it was none of my mischief,” answered Helena daringly. “I did not think that Martha would be ready to go so soon. I should have shown you how pretty they looked among their green leaves. We put them in one of your best white dishes with the openwork edge. Martha shall show you to-morrow; mamma always likes to have them so.” Helena’s fingers were busy with the hard knot of a parcel.