Indie made Tom’s widow understand the whole situation, then she offered herself in any capacity that could serve little Tom, who had the look that she dimly remembered in young Tom when she first went to live with his parents. Indie would take work in the factory as she had planned to do and board with Tom’s widow to help along all she could, or she would take them all back to the farm and work very hard to make a mere living while little Tom had a chance for his life. “Why, I’d be willin’ to work day an’ night on a farm!” the widow answered earnestly. “I’m jest plum certain Tom will git well way off there in the country. Oh, do take us back with you! Me’n Minnie an’ Jim can make a real good crop between us. You’ll see!” That was what Indie wanted. She would sacrifice the last thing that remained to her—her pride—and ask Lem to help her by standing good for the hundred-dollar note, and far the rest she would work as she had never worked before. “We’ll go tomorrow,” Indie announced. “You git right to work packin’ up what you want to take.” The world was aflame with the splendid fires of sunset when the little party alighted before the farm gate on the following evening. “I’m real glad it’s light enough for you to see the flowers an’ things,” said Indie, as she led the way up the rose-bordered walk that seemed to greet her with sweet familiarity. “Good thing I left the key under the porch steps right where I could find it handy. There, now walk right in an’ set down, while I kindle a fire an’ git some supper.” She had bought a few eatables the last thing before leaving Birmingham, which she speedily converted into a tempting meal. Her guests rewarded her industry to a gratifying degree, even to little Tom, who seemed to have acquired a good appetite which delighted his frail, worried mother beyond bounds. “He ain’t et like that in I dunno when!” she exclaimed with tears of joy. It was close upon Indie’s usual bedtime when her ministration ended. She slipped out for a quiet rest on the front door-step to enjoy the peace and loveliness of the perfect spring night, but hardly had she seated herself when the garden gate creaked rustily and someone strode up the walk with heavy strides. At the sight of the dim figure on the step the intruder stopped precipitately. “Who’s there?” asked a familiar voice. Indie rose tremblingly. “It’s Indie Bright,” she answered. “Did you want to see me?” “Indie!” exclaimed a voice so thrillingly joyous that the listener felt herself quiver from head to foot with a strange, inexplicable ecstasy. “Ain’t it Lem Powers?” she asked. “Has anything happened?” “That’s what I’d like to know,” came the surprised answer. “I thought you was gone!” Indie told her story briefly, carefully deflecting all merit from herself. “I’m real glad it happened that way,” she finished, “for I did hate to sell the old place.”