Safe tears, and unobserved but by him who kissed them away, for already they had entered the thicket, and were veiled from the sight of Kate Kavanagh, who now dismounted before the door of the hut, and taking from the horns of the saddle a basket and a bundle, entered the poor preacher’s humble habitation. We will turn from the erring pair and enter with her. None but God knew how much disinterested good the poor mountain-girl did in this world. Even the minister, who loved and respected her, knew little beyond the good she did for him. He knew that she knit new stockings and darned old ones for him—that she took his scanty clothing every week, and mended, and washed, and ironed it for him—and that when she brought it back, she would always bring him butter, cream and cheese of her own making, and a fresh loaf of rising bread of her own baking, and often some little rural luxury besides, as a jar of honey or a piece of venison. And that she would stay and clean up his house before she left. He knew that she was his good spirit. As Kate entered the room, the old man came and met her, and took the basket and the bundle from her hands and set them down, and set a chair for her, and made her sit down in it, while he said— “My dear child! my excellent child, you do too much for me! You hurt yourself, Catherine, and make me too deeply your debtor!” Kate waved her hand in that quick, short way peculiar to herself, silently beseeching him to stop. “But it is the truth, Catherine, my child! I shall never be able to repay you!” “Oh, sir! you have reversed the case! It is _I_ who am _your_ debtor! If I were not _particularly_ your debtor for all the education—mental, and moral, and religious, that I have ever received, up to the time of my coming to Hardbargain—still I should be _generally_ your debtor, as youth is the general debtor of age—owing it all the service it can give.” Then, to change the subject, the girl laid off her straw hat, drew off her sheep-skin home-made mittens, and arose and uncovered her basket, saying—“Instead of a loaf of rising bread, Mr. Saunders, I have brought you some fresh biscuits; I thought they might be an agreeable change. There is also a fresh print of butter, and a bottle of cream, and a beef’s tongue, boiled—I thought the last would give you an appetite—I think you have not had a good appetite, lately!” And without more ado Catherine put the things away in the cupboard, setting the bottle of cream in a bowl of water, to keep cool, and wishing to herself that she had a lump of ice to put on the old man’s print of butter. Next, she unrolled the bundle, took the old man’s nicely washed and mended clothes, and put them neatly away in the chest of drawers. Then she set the empty basket aside, rolled up her sleeves, stooped down upon the hearth, and began to make the fire, saying—“You know I have come to dine with you to-day, Mr. Saunders!”