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It was just at sunset, and as she looked out hopelessly across the gray fields, there was a sudden gleam of light far away on the low hills beyond; the clouds opened in the west and let the sunshine through. One lovely gleam shot swift as an arrow and brightened a far cold hillside where it fell, and at the same moment a sudden gleam of hope brightened the winter landscape of her heart.

“There was Johnny Harris,” said Mary Ann Robb softly. “He was a soldier’s son, left an orphan and distressed. Old John Mander scolded, but I could n’t see the poor boy in want. I kept him that year after he got hurt, spite o’ what anybody said, an’ he helped me what little he could. He said I was the only mother he ‘d ever had. ‘I ‘m goin’ out West, Mother Robb,’ says he. ‘I sha’n’t come back till I get rich,’ an’ then he ‘d look at me an’ laugh, so pleasant and boyish. He wa’n’t one that liked to write. I don’t think he was doin’ very well when I heard,–there, it’s most four years ago now. I always thought if he got sick or anything, I should have a good home for him to come to. There ‘s poor Ezra Blake, the deaf one, too,–he won’t have any place to welcome him.”

The light faded out of doors, and again Mrs. Robb’s troubles stood before her. Yet it was not so dark as it had been in her sad heart. She still sat by the window, hoping now, in spite of herself, instead of fearing; and a curious feeling of nearness and expectancy made her feel not so much light-hearted as light-headed.

“I feel just as if somethin’ was goin’ to happen,” she said. “Poor Johnny Harris, perhaps he’s thinkin’ o’ me, if he’s alive.”

It was dark now out of doors, and there were tiny clicks against the window. It was beginning to snow, and the great elms creaked in the rising wind overhead.

III.

A dead limb of one of the old trees had fallen that autumn, and, poor firewood as it might be, it was Mrs. Robb’s own, and she had burnt it most thankfully. There was only a small armful left, but at least she could have the luxury of a fire. She had a feeling that it was her last night at home, and with strange recklessness began to fill the stove as she used to do in better days.

“It ‘ll get me good an’ warm,” she said, still talking to herself, as lonely people do, “an’ I ‘ll go to bed early. It’s comin’ on to storm.”

The snow clicked faster and faster against the window, and she sat alone thinking in the dark.

“There ‘s lots of folks I love,” she said once. “They ‘d be sorry I ain’t got nobody to come, an’ no supper the night afore Thanksgivin’. I ‘m dreadful glad they don’t know.” And she drew a little nearer to the fire, and laid her head back drowsily in the old rocking-chair.

It seemed only a moment before there was a loud knocking, and somebody lifted the latch of the door. The fire shone bright through the front of the stove and made a little light in the room, but Mary Ann Robb waked up frightened and bewildered.

“Who ‘s there?” she called, as she found her crutch and went to the door. She was only conscious of her one great fear. “They ‘ve come to take me to the poor-house!” she said, and burst into tears.

There was a tall man, not John Mander, who seemed to fill the narrow doorway.

“Come, let me in!” he said gayly. “It’s a cold night. You did n’t expect me, did you, Mother Robb?”

“Dear me, what is it?” she faltered, stepping back as he came in, and dropping her crutch. “Be I dreamin’? I was a-dreamin’ about– Oh, there! What was I a-sayin’? ‘T ain’t true! No! I’ve made some kind of a mistake.”