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They heard from George often: he was well, and busy with drill and camp life — not in active service as yet. Incidentally, too, Dely heard of her mother. Old Kenyon was dead of apoplexy, and Steve like to die of drink. This was a bit of teamster’s gossip, but proved to be true. Toward the end of the winter, old Mother Adams slept quietly in the Lord. No pain or sickness grasped her, through she knew she was dying, kissed and blessed Dely, sent a mother’s message to George, and took the baby for the last time into her arms; then she laid her head on the pillow, smiled, and drew a long breath, — no more.

Poor Dely’s life was very lonely; she buried her dead out of her sight, wrote a loving sobbing letter to George, and began to try to live alone. Hard enough it was! March revenged itself on the past toleration of winter; snow fell in blinding fury and drifts hid fences and fenced the doors all through Hartland Hollow. Day after day Dely struggled through the path to the barn to feed Biddy and milk her; and a warm mess of bread and milk often formed her only meal in that bitter weather. It is not credible to those who think no more of animals than of chairs and stones how much society and solace they afford to those who do love them. Biddy was really Dely’s friend. Many a long day passed when no human face but the baby’s greeted her from dawn till dusk. But the cow’s beautiful purple eyes always turned to welcome her as she entered its shed-door; her wet muzzle touched Dely’s cheek with a velvet caress; and while her mistress drew from the downy bag its white and rich stores, Biddy would turn her head round, and eye her with such mild looks, and breathe such fragrance toward her, that Dely, in her solitary and friendless state, came to regard her as a real sentient being, capable of love and sympathy, and had an affection for her that would seem utter nonsense to half, perhaps three quarters, of the people in this unsentimental world. Many a time did the lonely little woman lay her head on Biddy’s neck, and talk to her about George with sobs and silences interspersed; and many a piece of dry bread steeped in warm water, or golden carrot, or mess of stewed turnips and bran flavored the dry hay that was the staple of the cow’s diet. The cat was old now, and objected to the baby so strenuously that Dely regarded her as partly insane from age; and though she was kind to her course, and fed her faithfully, still a cat that could growl at George’s baby was not regarded with the same complacent kindness that had always blessed her before; and whenever the baby was asleep at milking-time, Pussy was locked into the closet,— a proceeding she resented. Biddy, on the contrary, seemedto admire the child,— she certainly did not object to her,— and necessarily obtained thereby a far higher place in Dely’s heart than the cat.

As I have already said, Dely had heard of her step-father’s death some time before; and one stormy day, the last week in March, a team coming from Hanerford with gain stopped at the door of the little red house, and the driver handed Dely a dirty and ill-written letter from her mother. Just such an epistle it was as might have been expected from Mrs. Kenyon,— full of weak sorrow, and entreaties to Dely to come home and live; she was old and tired, the bakery was coming to trouble for want of a good manager, the foreman was a rough, and the business failing fast, and she wanted George and Dely there: evidently, she had not heard, when the letter began, of George’s departure or baby’s birth; but the latter half said, “Cum, anyway. I want to se the Baby. I’m an old critur, a sinking into my graiv, and when george cums back from the wars he must liv hear the rest off his life.”