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“I don’t want you should make a mistake,” said he. “Mebbe you an’ I don’t look for’ard enough. They say you’ll repent it if you stay, an’ there’ll be a hurrah-boys all round. What say to makin’ us a visit? That’ll kind o’ stave it off, an’ then we can see what’s best to be done.”

Lucy Ann put her hands to her delicate throat, where her mother’s gold beads lay lightly, with a significant touch. She, like John, had an innate gentleness of disposition. She distrusted her own power to judge.

“Maybe I might,” said she faintly. “Oh, John, do you think I’ve got to?”

“It needn’t be for long,” answered John briefly, though he felt his eyes moist with pity of her. “Mebbe you could stay a month?”

“Oh, I couldn’t do that!” cried Lucy Ann, in wild denial. “I never could in the world. If you’ll make it a fortnight, an’ harness up yourself, an’ bring me home, mebbe I might.”

John gave his word, but when he took his leave of her, she leaned forward into the dark, where the impatient horse was fretting, and made her last condition.

“You’ll let me turn the key on things here jest as they be? You won’t ask me to break up nuthin’?”

“Break up!” repeated John, with the intensity of an oath. “I guess you needn’t. If anybody puts that on you, you send ’em to me.”

So Lucy Ann packed her mother’s dresses into a little hair trunk that had stood in the attic unused for many years, and went away to make her visit. When she drove up to the house, sitting erect and slender in her mother’s cashmere shawl and black bonnet, Mary, watching from the window, gave a little cry, as at the risen dead. John had told her about Lucy Ann’s transformation, but she put it all aside as a crazy notion, not likely to last: now it seemed less a pathetic masquerade than a strange by-path taken by nature itself.

The children regarded it with awe, and half the time called Lucy Ann “grandma.” That delighted her. Whenever they did it, she looked up to say, with her happiest smile,–

“There! that’s complete. You’ll remember grandma, won’t you? We mustn’t ever forget her.”

Here, in this warm-hearted household, anxious to do her service in a way that was not her own, she had some happiness, of a tremulous kind; but it was all built up of her trust in a speedy escape. She knit mittens, and sewed long seams; and every day her desire, to fill the time was irradiated by the certainty that twelve hours more were gone. A few more patient intervals, and she should be at home. Sometimes, as the end of her visit drew nearer, she woke early in the morning with a sensation of irresponsible joy, and wondered, for an instant, what had happened to her. Then it always came back, with an inward flooding she had scarcely felt even in her placid youth. At home there would be so many things, to do, and, above all, such munificent leisure! For there she would feel no need of feverish action to pass the time. The hours would take care of themselves; they would fleet by, while she sat, her hands folded, communing with old memories.

The day came, and the end of her probation. She trembled a good deal, packing her trunk in secret, to escape Mary’s remonstrances; but John stood by her, and she was allowed to go.

“You’ll get sick of it,” called Mary after them. “I guess you’ll be glad enough to see the children again, an’ they will you. Mind, you’ve got to come back an’ spend the winter.”

Lucy Ann nodded happily. She could agree to anything sufficiently remote; and the winter was not yet here.

The first day in the old house seemed to her like new birth in Paradise. She wandered about, touching chairs and tables and curtains, the manifest symbols of an undying past. There were loving duties to be done, but she could not do them yet. She had to look her pleasure in the face, and learn its lineaments.