The Deacon sat for some minutes, his head sunk between his shoulders, and then, pulling himself together, said, “I might as well tell you something first as last, Margaret,—a fact that neither of you women seems to think possible. Gurth Waldsen left no will or legal papers of any sort. The farm and money does not belong to Andrea any more than it does to us! More than this, it is my duty to inform his mother of the facts, as she is his only heir, and appoint an administrator to take charge of the estate, pending its settlement!” Margaret had risen and was standing with dilated eyes and her hands clasped before her. “Father! father! I never thought of this. Can nothing be done? Can we not arrange in some way? Oh! who will tell Andrea?” “As Waldsen did not have the foresight to protect her, we can do nothing, daughter. She need not be told for a few weeks, though, until I receive some order from his mother,—but know it she must. If they had married last spring, this trouble would have been avoided. Mark my words, daughter, some niceties of feeling are too good for daily use. Gurth was a dreamer, and dreams always end like this.” “Let us wait a few weeks,” interrupted Margaret, hastily. “As you say, it may seem less brutal than to tell her now, or his mother, who is so rich, may let Andrea keep the land.” VI With December the deep snows came, and there were times when Andrea could not make her daily pilgrimage to the Hill Farm. She regarded her plan of life as settled, and was grateful that she met with no opposition. She had spoken to the Grigses, and was only waiting for Christmas, her marriage day, to go home! Home! She made the most of the magic word, not realizing its emptiness. She was in an overwrought, exalted state. Feeling that Waldsen was very near, she knew no loneliness. When she was not working, she sat in his room and looked up the hill. Once or twice she took down his violin, and drew the bow across its strings, half expecting it would yield its old music. To sympathizing neighbours she told her plans freely, and they, marvelling at her courage, wondered among themselves if her head was quite right. The weeks went on, and Margaret dreaded every mail, lest it should bring the foreign letter. Christmas was drawing near when, on the day before it, the letter came. It was from Mrs. Waldsen’s lawyer, brief and couched in technical language, giving directions for the disposal of the farm and declining peremptorily to make any allowance to “the woman who had brought about the estrangement between mother and son, and had so boldly followed the latter to America, though it was evident, as he had made no provision for her, that he had no intention of marrying her.”