“He did it all, bought every pot and pan, arranged each detail. There were no modern conveniences until old Cotter died--_he_ would not let James put them in. My boy loves this cottage; he sometimes spends several days here all alone, when he is very tired. He doesn't even like me to send Moses down, but of course I won't hear of that.” She shook her head with smiling finality. There were some things, her manner suggested, that little boys could not be allowed. “But, Mrs. Farraday,” Mary exclaimed, “how can we possibly take the house from him if he uses it?” “My dear,” the little lady's hand lighted on Mary's arm, “when thee knows my James better, thee will know that his happiness lies in helping his friends find theirs. He would be deeply disappointed if thee did not take it,” and her hand squeezed Mary's reassuringly. “We are too wonderfully lucky--I don't know how to express my gratitude,” Mary answered. “I think the good Lord sends us what we deserve, my dear, whether of good or ill,” the little lady replied, smiling wisely. Constance sighed contentedly. “Oh, Mrs. Farraday, you are so good for us all. I'm a modern backslider, and hardly ever go to church, but you always make me feel as if I had just been.” “Backslider, Constance? 'Thy own works praise thee, and thy children rise up and call thee blessed--thy husband also,'” quoted their hostess. “Well, I don't know if my boys and Theodore call me blessed, but I hope the Suffragists will one day. Goodness knows I work hard enough for them.” “I've believed in suffrage all my life, like all Friends,” Mrs. Farraday answered, “but where thee has worked I have only prayed for it.” “If prayers are heard, I am sure yours should count more than my work, dear lady,” said Constance, affectionately pressing the other's hand. The little Quaker's eyes were bright as she looked at her friend. “Ah, my dear, thee is too generous to an old woman.” Mary loved this little dialogue, “What dears all my new friends are,” she thought; “how truly good.” All the world seemed full of love to her in these days; her heart blossomed out to these kind people; she folded them in the arms of her spirit. All about, in nature and in human kind, she felt the spring burgeoning, and within herself she felt it most of all. But of this Mary could express nothing, save through her face--she had never looked more beautiful. Coming into the dining room she found Farraday watching her. He seemed tired. She put out her hand. “May we really have it? You are sure?” “You like it?” he smiled, holding the hand. She flushed with the effort to express herself. “I adore it. I can't thank you.” “Please don't,” he answered. “You don't know what pleasure this gives me. Come as soon as you can; everything is ready for you.” “And about the rent?” she asked, hating to speak of money, but knowing Stefan would forget.