The night before she had fully determined to follow her mother's counsel—to give herself heart and soul to him who had given himself for her. But since then, she had read Miss Priscilla's letter, and her mother's remarks upon it, and hence arose her trouble. This it was which had waked up the lions which disputed her passage, and if the lions were chained, she saw not the chains. She knew that to follow the footsteps of her Lord she must forgive not only her own enemy—she thought that would be almost easy—but her mother's. "Forgive if ye would be forgiven," rung in her ears, and she felt the words were true. "If it had been only myself,—" she said over and over again—"but my mother, my dear precious mother, who never did harm to any one in all her days—no, no! I never can! Oh, why did she keep that letter! She might have known! Oh, what shall I do!—What shall I do!" In her trouble of mind, she had nearly passed Cassius's modest little house, but was recalled by a cheerful greeting from the old man, who was cutting some wood outside the gate. "Morning, Missy! Don't you mean to stop and give us a call?" "Yes, of course," answered Calista, recalled from her abstraction, and pulling up Jeff, nothing loth, at the gate. "I will come in if you will fasten the pony." Cassius tied the pony, and brought him an armful of fragrant new hay from the next field, with which the attention of that ancient sage was soon wholly engrossed. Meantime, Calista had alighted, and was receiving a hearty welcome from Aunt Sally, who conducted her to the house and seated her in the best chintz-covered rocking-chair, bringing her a fan, and sending a little girl to the well for cool water. "Who is that little thing?" asked Calista, as the child disappeared. "Your grandchild?" "Lord bless you, honey, no. My grandchillen's no such peaked, puny little things as that, thanks to Massy. No, that's poor Maria Jackson's child, that works to Mrs. Dare's, the dressmaker. You see, Mrs. Dare she can't very well have the child round—she can't, really—and Maria boarded the little thing out, down to Gouldtown. But the woman that had her didn't do her justice—made her work far too hard, though Maria paid her regular. Besides, she didn't give her half enough to eat. One day I met Maria in the street, and says she,— "'Just look at this child, will you!' "And says I, 'For Massy, Maria, what ails her?' "So she up and told me, and Sister Wilson, that was with her, said it was all so. "And says I, 'Maria, you just let me have her a few weeks, and you won't know her. Don't you never send her back to that woman,' says I. "'But I don't know as I can afford to pay what it is worth,' says she. "'Never mind,' says I; 'you pay what you can, or don't pay anything. Just let me have her a few weeks, and see what I can do with her. And Cassius says the same.' "So we brought her home, and she's picked up wonderful in a week."