Seven years had gone by, and every day of each successive month had been full to overflowing of hard work for Pauline.

‘Dear Tryphosa,’ she whispered to herself with a smile, ’you little thought, when you gave me that new beatitude, what constant friends the grey angel of Drudgery and I were to be.’

She climbed slowly up the narrow stairs to her room, and shaded the lamp that it might not disturb Polly’s troubled sleep, poor Polly, who would be an invalid for life. Then she sat down with a sigh of relief to read Belle’s last letter. It had been a hard day, her step-mother had been more than usually restless, and the farm-work had been very heavy, for Martha Spriggs was home on a visit; every nerve in her body seemed to quiver with the strain.

‘My dearest Paul,’ Belle wrote, ’I can hardly see for crying, but I promised her that you should know at once.

’Tryphosa went away from us to “the other shore” last night. We were all there her “inner circle” as she used to call us all except you, and she seemed to miss you so. I never knew her to grow fond of any one in so short a time, but she took you right into her heart from the first. If I had not loved you so much I should have been jealous, but who could be jealous of you, you precious, brave saint?

’I have heard of the gate of heaven, but last night we were there.

’Dick was supporting her in his arms, poor Dick, he was so fond of her, and it was so hard for her to breathe and we were all gathered round her, our hearts breaking to think it was the last time. She has suffered terribly lately, but at the last the pain left her, and she lay with the very rapture of heaven on her dear face, talking so brightly of how we should do after she had gone. It was just as if she were going on a pleasure trip, and we were to follow later. She turned to me with her lovely eyes all aglow with joy, and said:

’"Give my Bible to the dear child in the valley” (that was what she always called you), “and tell her ’the miles to heaven are but short and few.’”

’She had a message for us all, and then, suddenly, just as the dawn broke, a great light swept over her face and she turned her head and whispered, “Jesus!” just as if He were close beside her, and then she was gone.

’I shall never forget it. I have always thought of Death as the King of Terrors, but last night it was the coming of the Bridegroom for His own.’

With a low cry Pauline’s head dropped. There could never be anyone just like ‘my lady,’ and she had gone away.

The hours passed silently, as she sat benumbed in the grasp of her great sorrow.

Suddenly she sprang up. Her father was calling her from the foot of the stairs.

‘Mother’s had a bad turn. Send Stephen for the doctor, and come, quick!’

She hurried down, and mechanically heated water, and did what she could to help the stricken woman, but before the doctor could reach the house, the Angel of Death had swept over the threshold, and Pauline and her father were left alone.

‘Here’s a letter for yer, Pawliney. Don’t yer wish yer may git it?’ and Lemuel, the irrepressible, waved it at her tantalisingly from the top of the tall hickory, where he had perched himself, like the monkey that he was.

She saw the Boston post-mark, and stretched out her hands for it longingly.

‘Bring it down, there’s a dear boy.’

‘Not much! I bet Leander that I could make you mad, an’ he bet his new jack-knife that I couldn’t. I’m goin’ to chew it up. It’s orful thin, ‘taint no good anyhow. You won’t miss it, P’liney,’ and crushing the letter into a small wad he put it into his capacious mouth.

It was, as Lemuel said, ‘awful thin,’ not much like the volumes which Belle usually wrote. She had not been able to distinguish the writing, but, of course, it must be from Belle. The two cousins had grown very near to each other as the years rolled by, and a summer never passed without some of her uncle’s family spending a week or two in Sleepy Hollow. Those were Pauline’s red-letter days the bright, scintillating points where she was brought into touch again with the world of thought and light and beauty.

‘Throw it down to me, Lemuel, dear.’

Cant, said the boy coolly, Im goin ter tie it to Polls balloon, an let go of the string, an then itll go straight to heaven, and, with the letter reposing in his cheek, he began to sing vociferously:

’"I want ter be an angel,
An’ with the angels stand;
A crown upon my forehead,
A harp within my hand.”

‘Git mad now, P’liney, quick, fer I want that knife orful.’

A cry from Polly made Pauline hurry into the house to find that Martha Spriggs had slipped while passing the child’s couch, and upset a bowl of scalding milk, which she was carrying, right over the little invalid’s foot. In the confusion which followed, Pauline forgot Lemuel and her longed-for letter. When she went out to look for him he was gone.

‘Give it to me now, Lemuel,’ she said, as he came into supper; ’you’ve had enough fun for to-day.’

‘Can’t P’liney. I used it fer a gun wad to shoot a squirrel with, an’ the cat ate the squirrel, letter an’ all. Yer don’t want me ter kill the cat, do yer, P’liney?’

‘Oh! Lemuel,’ she cried softly, ‘how could you? How could you do it?’

She sighed sorrowfully. She had tried so hard to make Lemuel a good boy, but nothing seemed to touch him, and, young as he was, the neighbours had begun to lay the blame of every misdeed upon his shoulders, and Deacon Croaker predicted with a mournful shake of his head, ’No good will ever come of Lemuel Harding. He’s a bad lot, a bad lot.’

‘Sing to me!’ cried Polly, ‘the pain’s awful!’ and taking the weary little form in her arms, Pauline sang herself back into her usual happy trust.

She would not tell Belle her letter had been destroyed. She must shield Lemuel.

‘I’m doing my best,’ she said to herself, ‘God understands.’

‘Ain’t yer mad yit?’ whispered Lemuel anxiously, as he peered into the bright peaceful face on his way to bed.

The hand that stroked his tumbled hair was very gentle.

‘No, Lemuel, only sorry that my boy forgot the King was looking on.’

With a shame-faced look the boy’s hand sought his pocket, but Satan whispered, ‘She may be mad to-morrow,’ and he crept away.

‘What are you teasing Pauline about?’ asked Stephen, as he went upstairs.

‘Ain’t doin’ nuthin’,’ was the sullen reply.

’Yes, you are. She don’t hev sorrowful looks in her eyes unless you’re cuttin’ up worse than common. You’ve just got to leave off sudden, or I’ll give you something you won’t ever forgit.’

‘Ain’t goin’ ter be bossed by nobody,’ said the boy doggedly, as he reached his room. ‘Was goin’ ter give her the old letter to-morrow, anyway, but now I don’t care if she never gits it,’ and opening the chest which held his few treasures, he deliberately shut up the letter in an old tin box, and went to bed.

‘Father is gettin’ so mortal queer,’ said Stephen discontentedly. ’First he tells me to top-dress the upper lot, and then right off he wants me to harness up and go to the mill. I don’t see how a feller’s to know what to do. Most wish I’d gone West with Leander, it’s a free life there, and he’s his own master.’

‘"One is our Master, even Christ,"’ Pauline quoted softly. ’Don’t go, Stephen, you and Lemuel are the only ones on the farm now, and father is getting old.’

She spoke sadly. She had noticed with a sinking heart how ‘queer’ her father was.

The years had slipped by until Polly was seventeen. A very frail little body she was, but always so patient and sweet, that Pauline never grudged the constant care.

Two of the boys had taken the shaping of their own lives and gone away, and Susan Ann had a home of her own with two little freckled-faced children to call her mother.

‘We’ll jog along together, Stephen,’ she said in her bright, cheery way. ’Father forgets now and then, but he doesn’t mean any harm, and it’s only one day at a time, you know.’

Stephen looked at her admiringly.

’You’re a brick, Pawliney, and I guess if you can stand it, I ought to be able to, with you round making the sunshine. I’d be a brute to go and leave you and Lem with it all on your shoulders’; and the honest, good-hearted fellow went in to give Polly a kiss before he started for the mill.

Clearing out an old trunk next day Pauline came across a soiled, tumbled envelope. It was the letter which Lemuel had tucked away and forgotten while he waited for her to ‘get mad.’

She opened it eagerly. It was from Richard Everidge.

‘I should like to come down and see you,’ he wrote, ’in Sleepy Hollow, that is, if you care to have me, and it is quite convenient. Do not trouble to write unless you want me. If I do not get an answer I shall know you do not care.’

Richard Everidge had been married for three years now, and had a little girl.

She clasped her hands with one quick cry of pain. What must he have thought of her all these years? Her friend, who had always been so kind! so kind!

‘Pawliney!’ called her father, in the querulous accents of one whose brain is weakening. ’Pawliney, I wish you’d come down and sing a little, the house is terrible lonesome since mother’s gone.’

And Pauline sang, in her full, sweet tones:

’"God moves in a mysterious way
His wonders to perform."’

‘God is good, Pawliney?’

‘Yes, father.’

‘He never makes mistakes?’

‘Oh, no, father.’

‘You believe that, Pawliney?’

‘Yes, yes, I know it, father.’

And her voice rang out triumphantly in another stanza:

’"Judge not the Lord by feeble sense,
But trust Him for His grace:
Behind a frowning providence
He hides a smiling face."’