“’Tis to be hoped that her folks in New York will never find out the truth, and turn her out so onmarciful as her gran’ther did!” observed the guest, who inclined to the side of mercy. What was his surprise to be told that little Eva was sleeping under the same roof! “Mad as a March hare!” added the host, after relating the story of how he had found Eva. “She couldn’t never have started to New York. I b’lieve in my heart, Sam, the poor gal was coming right to us in her mis’ry! She was on our land, skeerce a mile away!” cried Goody, with a choke in her throat at thought of Eva’s confidence in their love. The guest replied thoughtfully: “Well, you’ve got her for keeps, sure, unless you turn her out like her own folks, or write to her father in New York to take her home. ’Twon’t be no use to send word to Stony Ledge. Them folks has washed their hands of her forever.” “And ’tain’t likely her dad will be willing to have her, neither. Proud, rich folks like him that broke his poor wife’s heart, ain’t like to own a daughter that has brought disgrace to the family,” Sam answered despondently, as he refilled and lighted his pipe, obscuring the warm air with curling blue rings of smoke. “Whatever on earth will you do with her, then? Let her stay here?” questioned the guest, and Goody answered with a troubled air: “I’ve never took to girls as went wrong like her, but yit I ain’t the heart to turn her out, homeless, like a stray dog. I think me and Sam will have to pray over it to-night and consult the preacher to-morrow, before we can rightly decide our duty to her and the Lord.” But they did not consult the preacher the next day, for all night on the bleak mountain the storm raged, and the snow drifted, until all the roads were impassable for days and days. The guest did not get away for three days, but he made his company acceptable by lending a hand in clearing away the snow from the paths, and assisting Jinkins at the hog-killing and sausage-making; which beguiled the time till the sun came out and melted the snow with its genial rays, when he mounted his horse and rode away, calling back as his last word: “I see nothing for’t but to send little Eva off to Weston!” Sam and his wife both shuddered at the word, and turned back, without answering, into the house, where Eva sat upon the floor like a child, moving her head and her hands in a restless fashion, and singing low to herself aimless words and snatches of songs, all in a wearisome, tuneless monotone, enough to drive a sane person mad. She was ill, too, and coughed often between her chanting, from a terrible cold she had contracted that night when she was lost on the mountain. She did not recognize her kind friends, and no light of reason had glimmered in her big sombre, dark eyes since Sam Brown had brought her home, drenched and shivering, in his kind arms.