She threw up her head with a gesture habitual to her as if defying fate and its limitations, and his eyes followed her as she moved about the room putting things to rights. What a glorious creature she was!--accepting poverty and bareness as her portion and yet rising above them regally; throwing herself into his work, her own round of toil, her children’s pleasures, the neighborhood sorrows--all with the same exuberance of interest and prodigality of self! What would he have been in his work without her, his “missionary coadjutor,” as he called her? She was so overflowing with vitality, so undaunted, so alive! A thrill passed through him at the word _alive_.... Poor Joe Henderson! Suppose--He covered his eyes and his lips moved. She was on her knees beside him in an instant. “John, what is it? What are you saying?” He took her face between his hands and looked into her eyes. “I was saying: ‘Bless the Lord, O my soul; and forget not all His benefits.’” “I knew you would come to it, John. Now let’s open the barrel.” * * * * * The first thing to come out was a woman’s hat-box--a generous one. For years Mary Haloran had worn a small brown felt, trimmed modestly (as became a missionary’s wife) with two quills and a knot of velvet. The quills were placed at varying angles from year to year, and the velvet was steamed annually. When it got past that it was placed under the family iron and “mirrored.” It always looked respectable, but when Mrs. Haloran saw that spacious box, a swift vision of a black velvet hat with black plumes and a jet buckle--all new at the same time--rose before her. “I am glad the first thing is for you,” John Haloran said. “You deserve it.” They laughed at her efforts to untie it; her fingers were clumsy in her excitement. But it was open at last. She held up to view an old white Leghorn covered with faded flowers. For one moment neither of them spoke. Then her sense of humor came to the rescue and she burst into hysterical laughter. Putting on the hat she bowed low. “The Reverend Mrs. Haloran, missionary coadjutor! Well, let’s see if we can’t find something to go with it!” She found it. And again her ringing laughter pealed out while the minister stood by, the embodiment of outraged dignity. To him there was nothing amusing in this sight. Somebody has said that “for taking us over a trying place a sense of humor is better than the grace of God.” Humor was but rudimentary in John Haloran at best, and to-day it was absolutely lacking. “It is an outrage!” he said. “It _is_ an outrage, John. I grant it. But it’s funny!” It is not our purpose to give here the contents of that barrel. It is sufficient to say that after the first few garments hope died. [Illustration: “AN OLD WHITE LEGHORN COVERED WITH FADED FLOWERS.”]