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“I’m not good at butter-making, Sam,” she said, “but I can make money teaching, and for this first year I pay the rent.” And she did.

And the sweet, brief year swung on through its seasons, until one brown September morning the faint cry of a little human lamb floated through the open window of the small gray house on the back lots. Sam did not go to Willson’s to work that day, but stayed home, playing the part of a big, joyful, clumsy nurse, his roughened hands gentle and loving, his big rugged heart bursting with happiness. It was twilight, and the gray shadows were creeping into the bare little room, touching with feathery fingers a tangled mop of yellow curls that aureoled a pillowed head that was not now filled with thoughts of Tennyson and Emerson and frilly muslin shirtwaists. That pretty head held but two realities–Sammy, whistling robin-like as he made tea in the kitchen, and the little human lamb hugged up on her arm.

But suddenly the whistling ceased, and Sammy’s voice, thrilling with joy, exclaimed:

“Oh, mother!”

“Mrs. Willson sent word to me. Your father’s gone to the village, and I ran away, Sammy boy,” whispered Mrs. Norris, eagerly. “I just ran away. Where’s Della and–the baby?”

“In here, mother, and–bless you for coming!” said the big fellow, stepping softly towards the bedroom. But his mother was there before him, her arms slipping tenderly about the two small beings on the bed.

“It wasn’t my fault, daughter,” she said, tremulously.

“I know it,” faintly smiled Della. “Just these last few hours I know I’d stand by this baby boy of mine here until the Judgement Day, and so I now know it must have nearly broken your heart not to stand by Sammy.”

“Well, grandmother!” laughed Sam, “what do you think of the new Norris?”

“Grandmother?” gasped Mrs. Norris. “Why, Sammy, am I a grandmother? Grandmother to this little sweetheart?” And the proud old arms lifted the wee “new Norris” right up from its mother’s arms, and every tiny toe and finger was kissed and crooned over, while Sam shyly winked at Della and managed to whisper, “You’ll see, girl, that dad will come around now; but he can just keep out of our house. There are two of us that can be harsh. I’m not going to come at his first whistle.”

Della smiled to herself, but said nothing. Much wisdom had come to her within the last year, with the last day–wisdom not acquired within the covers of books, nor yet beneath college roofs, and one truth she had mastered long ago–that

“To help and to heal a sorrow
Love and silence are always best.”

But late that night, when Martha Norris returned home, another storm broke above her hapless head. Old Billy sat on the kitchen steps waiting for her, frowning, scowling, muttering. “Where have you been?” he demanded, glaring at her, although some inner instinct told him what her answer would be.

“I’ve been to Sammy’s,” she said, in a peculiarly still voice, “and I’m going again to-morrow.” Then with shoulders more erect and eyes calmer than they had been for many months, she continued: “And I’m going again the next day, and the next. Billy, you and I’ve got a grandson–a splendid, fair, strong boy, and–“

“What!” snapped old Billy. “A grandson! I got a grandson, an’ no person told me afore? Not even that there sneak Sam, cuss him! He always was too consarned mean to live. A grandson? I’m a-goin’ over termorrer, sure’s I’m alive.”

“No use for you to go, Billy,” said Mrs. Norris, with marvellous diplomacy for such a simple, unworldly farmer’s wife to suddenly acquire. “Sammy wouldn’t let you set foot on his place. He wouldn’t let you put an eye or a finger on that precious baby–not for the whole earth.”

“What! Not me, the little chap’s grandfather?” blurted old Billy in a rage. “I’m a-goin’ to see that baby, that’s all there is to it. I tell yer, I’m a-goin’.”