So the gold of Chickaree had begun its work; and if one main channel of the fertilizing flow went through Mill Hollow, that was but one; and the others, larger and smaller, went—to use the old image of the brook on the mountain side, literally wherever they could. To the well and able, men or women, Rollo rarely ever gave anything but work, which he never refused. Every other need met a ready hand and open ear at Chickaree. Let no one imagine that the heads of that house led an easy life; to meet wisely the demands that came, to sift the false from the true, to apportion the help to the need, called for all their best strength incessantly in exercise. Being stewards of so much, less than all their time would not suffice to use it wisely. For let it be remembered, they had not allotted a part to philanthropy and a part to themselves; but had given the whole to God. They were hard workers; and if at evening Rollo threw off work and would have nothing but play, that was needful too. And did Hazel spend all her income wisely? Not always perhaps, at first; that could hardly be expected. It is not easy for even experienced hands to escape a deception now and then. But slowly, surely, she made progress; chiefly by two things. First, an eager desire to be a good steward with the power put in her hands, which just guided and warned and stimulated too the also eager desire to help everybody. Then Wych Hazel "prayed her way," and took counsel. And by dint of loving all people and feeling for all need, the way generally opened out. One thing was soon decided,—she would put her finger in every good work; everywhere her hand touched and left its token. But then went the nameless rills and drops of refreshment to hidden spots and places of need known to nobody else. Poor students fitted out and paid through college; poor invalids served with the best of medical care. Overworked ministers sent on a pleasure trip, _wife and all_. A nice dress here, a barrel of flour there, a wonderful book somewhere else. Ice to the sick, boxes of tea to the needy. Then from her odds and ends storehouse she showered prettiness upon the lives that were dry and dusty with toil. Flowers to one, a flower dish to another—wherever she went she left a touch of light and colour. People did not bend to kiss her shadow—as of Florence Nightingale: they turned and shaded their eyes to catch the light. Not the sheen of mere wealth, dazzling the sight of their poverty; but the joy and brightness of truth and love, reflected down upon her, and from her to them. If you would know, dear reader, part of the sequel to all the foregoing, you may, if you will take a walk some summer day through Mill Hollow. We will say it is ten years since Wych Hazel's marriage.