Esther was pretty and more than pretty. She was interesting. There was in her face a sweetness and brightness of expression that charmed all who met her, and won their affection. Then, too, she was one of those to whom all turn for instruction and advice. She knew how to do things. From the fashioning of a gown to the most intricate fancywork, as well as the rarer concoctions in the culinary department, Esther was the most competent authority in the neighborhood. Nor did her usefulness end here. In the sick room she was unequaled. “A most uncommon handy person to have around,” one of the good fathers in the community had said, and perhaps that best expressed her qualifications. God bless the “handy” person. What if Esther’s features were slightly irregular and her figure too slight for beauty. No one thought of that after the first half hour of her acquaintance. Donald felt his gaze returning repeatedly to that pale, cream-tinted face, as seated that night near his sister-in-law he listened to the chatter of the women. Mrs. McCleary sank into an easy chair, panting and short-breathed from the exertion of removing her wraps, and turning to Lissa began to talk volubly. “How very noice ye look, dear! Your hair curls so beautifully. When Esther was a little girl Oi used to do up her hair on curl-papers for her, but now she must do it for herself. It is really too much for me. Alice, Oi see yer not intoirely free from thet cough yet. Ye should nivver let it run. It moight run ye into consumption. Oi’ve known many a case to turn out so, hev ye not Miss Lissa? Ye must attind to it. Oi do wish ye’d thry some of moi Indian cough surrup. Oi hev a commoonication from a great Indian docther, advoising it. Mrs. Cloyne, did Oi tell ye how Georrge was cured of the faver?” All this she uttered without pausing for reply. Donald glanced at Esther at the mention of curl-papers, but not a tinge of color dyed the paleness of her cheeks. She was evidently accustomed to her mother’s revelations. George, however, looked a trifle annoyed at the mention of his name. Mrs. Clyne took advantage of the woman’s brief halt for breath to say that she had never heard the story. “Well, ye see, Georrge, was very ill, so ill we’d given him oop ter die, an’ Oi was cryin’ an’ prayin’ the great docther ter do sumthing fer him, whin if ye’ll belave me, the boy reached oop his hand, an’ in a moment we saw some leetle black specks lyin’ in it, lookin’ fer all the world like Ayer’s pills. He held thim so we all saw thim an’ thin he put thim in his mouth, an’ in the shortest toime he was aslape, an’ frim that very hour he was better.” “What do you think it was?” asked Mrs. Clyne. “Why, bless your sowl, what could it be but medicine put in his hand by some watchful spirit? Ye needn’t smoile, Mr. Mark Cramer, nor you, Mr. Bartram; there were a plenty present who’ll swear to what Oi tell ye. Ain’t it so, Mr. McCleary?” “Yis, yis,” the little man mumbled; “it is as she says.”