For a moment a look of amazement rested on Sandy’s face as he stared at the innocent questioner; then, as with an effort, he said, “I will, little lass, I will.”

“I would,” said little Prue, “and tell her there’s another little girl, what you know, sends her love to her, will you, Sandy?”

“Bless the bairn! Ye hae mair wisdom than ye ken;” adding under his breath, “a deal mair wisdom than Sandy McLeod.”

It was Helen, who, while walking by his house, had heard Sandy playing the pipes ever so softly, and looking in, had seen him playing, and, at the same time, looking lovingly at the old Scotch costume as it lay spread out upon the wooden chest in which it was usually kept. She had coaxed a part of his story from him that day, and he had declared he felt better for the telling.

The costume was one which his father had worn as chief of his clan when Sandy was a young man. There had been a dispute in which he and his father had been equally obstinate.

When the old man died, Sandy had left Scotland, taking with him the suit of tartan, the bagpipes, and, dearer than all, a letter in which his father forgave him for his part in the dispute. Further than this he refused to talk, saying nothing whatever as to living kinsmen or friends.

Having told a part of his story to Helen, to which she listened with ready interest and sympathy, it needed but a hit of judicious coaxing to get him to promise to play at the apple-bee.

And now the gayety, which had lulled while every one had listened to the music, revived, and each one present seemed to be trying his best to out-talk his neighbor.

“Isn’t Miss Dayton’s blue dress the very handsomest dress you ever saw?” said Jemima Babson.

“Yes, and isn’t she the handsomest person you ever saw in any dress?” said Phœbe Small, looking sharply at Randy, who was looking unusually pretty with her hair dressed to show its curls and ripples.

“Miss Dayton’s splendid, we all know that,” said Jotham, blushing furiously; “but it don’t make it out that Randy Weston isn’t amazing pretty.”

And here another voice chimed in, “Did yer ever taste anything like that candy in yer life?”

“It was just splendid, and I do b’lieve—”

“Have ye noticed Mrs. Jenks? I do declare, she’s as much different from what she used ter be as possible. Why, she sent them fine apples, and gave the hull of them pumpkins, and—”

Just at this point Mrs. Buffum ejaculated, “Well, as I live! ef it ain’t half-past ten o’clock,” and she commenced at once to collect her brood. All were loath to leave the joyous scene, but the lateness of the hour made it imperative. Some one proposed a song before saying good night, and soon old and young voices chimed sweetly together as they sang:—

    “All  the  year  round,  all  the  year  round,
    What  are  the  seasons  to  you  or  to  me?

    Summer  may  go,  bleak  winds  may  blow,
    Roses  crown  winter  if  cheery  we  be.
    Sounds  of  the  glad  spring,  pleasures  the  birds  bring,
    These  live  in  loving  hearts  where’er  they’re  found;
    Sweet  is  the  May  time,  sweet  is  the  hay  time,
    So  sweet  are  loving  lips,  all  the  year  round.”

“Hooray for the apple-bee! Hooray for Miss Dayton!” shouted Reuben Jenks, “Hooray for the bagpipes and the dance!” Every one cheered, and Jotham, laughing at his friend’s enthusiasm, shouted, “Hooray for every one and everything!” and they even cheered that; so, laughing and cheering, with lively chatter and snatches of song, wraps were donned and good nights said.

After the last guest had departed, Randy turned from the doorway, and going back into the house she sat down opposite her father, a happy smile upon her lips.

“Well, Randy,” said her father, kindly, as he saw she had something to say.

“Oh, father,” she said, “doesn’t it make you happy to see every one having a good time?”

“Yes, indeed, it does,” said father and mother together.

“I mean to try always to make people happy,” said Randy.

“So do I,” said little Prue; “but now let’s go to bed.”

Randy laughed, and saying, “You’ve done bravely, Prue, to keep your eyes open to-night,” led her little sister up the stairs to their tiny chamber, where soon they were fast asleep.

The Babson girls talked until after midnight over the evening’s entertainment, declaring it to be the “very greatest bee they ever went to.”

Phœbe Small, having no sister to talk it over with, kept the candle burning until late that night, while she wrote in her diary a lengthy description of the event. Phœbe had heard her mother tell of keeping a diary when she was young, so, of course, Phœbe, who ardently admired her mother, immediately commenced to keep one.

Old Sandy McLeod, as he gallantly helped Helen Dayton to alight at Mrs. Gray’s door, thanked her over and over again for the pleasure she had given him in allowing him to be her escort, telling her that he was glad enough that she had urged him to play the pipes, since the music had given such pleasure; adding, “Old Nathan and old Sandy hae’ na been the best of friends and neighbors, but to-night we hae shaken hands an’ we’re to be friends forever.”

“Oh, I’m so glad,” said Helen.

“And ane thing mair, lass,” he interrupted, “about that letter the little lass was talking of, I’ll write it to-night!”

“It is late, now,” said Helen.

“None too late to write. I’ll do it to-night and sen’ it to-morrow, as sure as I’m Sandy McLeod.”

True to his word, Sandy sat at his table until late into the night, writing a long, long letter. The candle flickered as his hand moved back and forth across the pages.

Many times he paused while writing, and with his head resting upon his hand, he seemed to be thinking how best to express himself, so that his message might find favor with his old friend and playmate.

At last, apparently, the letter was completed satisfactorily; for as the old man arose from the table, a faint smile flitted across his face.

Crossing the room to the old chest by the window, he fumbled about until he brought from its depths a little package; then, walking to the table, he placed the tiny parcel between the folded pages of the letter, put the letter into its envelope, and with utmost care addressed it, reading the address over three times to make sure that it was correct. Under his pillow he placed the letter, saying, “With the light o’ day I’ll start ye on the journey.” And of all the merry party who laughed and sang away the hours at the apple-bee, not one possessed a happier heart than Sandy.

And Helen murmured, softly, as she lay half awake and half asleep, “Every one was happy to-night.”

CHAPTER XI—AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR

How fair and tall the slender birches looked as the bright rays gilded their white trunks! How cool and deep the little pool which reflected the birches and brakes which overhung its edge; and far away across the field a great black crow flew, cawing as he winged his way, then perched upon a slender twig which swayed beneath his weight. Tiny sparrows twittered and chirped as they hopped about among the dried weeds, searching among the seed vessels for a possible breakfast.

Truly, all things were beautiful that morning; and Randy, from her chamber window, looked out upon the lovely scene, and on her face a smile and tear appeared,—a smile on the sweet lips in memory of the summer’s pleasure; a tear at the thought of Helen’s departure.

“It has been the nicest summer I have ever known,” mused Randy, softly. “Everything has looked prettier since she taught me how to look at things. How sweetly she thanked me for the rose I cut for her without spilling one of the dewdrops. ’Twas only a little thing, yet she thanked me as if the dewdrops were diamonds. Why, she just made me wild to find something to give to every one, if giving made such pleasure. I remember that I said I often wished I had more to give, and she showed me, oh, so plainly, that a smile or a pleasant word was worth the giving that I felt at once as if I were rich; for any one can say a pleasant word and all of us can smile. Oh, she’s done us ‘a world of good,’ as the parson’s wife said.”

While Randy dreamed at her window, Helen stood in the doorway at Mrs. Gray’s, and she, too, was thinking of the summer so happily spent.

Soon she would be at home, and in a few months the winter season would bring a round of social engagements.

Why had the days so quietly spent seemed so charming? What was the secret of their charm? Happy she had been,—very, very happy,—and so swiftly had the weeks sped that it seemed impossible that October had arrived. She had chosen to spend the summer, contrary to her usual custom, in a little country village, with no other thought than that in such a place she could be sure of rest and quiet.

She was a girl of generous impulses, and after becoming acquainted with the people of the neighborhood of the Gray homestead, many an opportunity for a gracious word or a generous action presented itself. How gently and with what ready tact she had made herself a friend to young and old, was proven by the genuine regret manifested whenever her departure was mentioned.

Helen had a host of friends of whom to take leave, and all were charmed and gladdened to hear that they would see her sweet face again sometime during the winter. She had called to see old Sandy once more before her departure, and he had had a wonderful bit of news to tell.

The letter which he had written after his return from the apple-bee he had posted early on the following morning. It was addressed to Miss Margaret McLean, and Sandy explained that, as her father had been a prominent manufacturer in the little Scottish town in which they had lived for years, holding large business interests and owning a number of mills which bore his name, the daughter, his only child, must be well known there; so he had trusted that the letter, written after so many years’ delay, might be promptly delivered.

Strangely enough, it had never occurred to Sandy to wonder if his old playmate were still living. To his great joy, an answer to the letter came sooner than he had expected. She was still waiting for him, she said, as she had ever waited, hoping that the time would come when he would forgive her for teasing him,—it had been but a girlish freak,—and tell her that he loved her as of old.

Her father had lost much of his money before he died, but she had a “bit of property,” she said, and she had sold her little cottage and would leave on the next steamer for America. She would bring with her a little Scotch lass, an orphan whom she had befriended and trained to be a little maid-servant; and, insisting that Sandy should meet her and go at once to some kirk to be married, she closed her letter with love to Sandy and a blessing for Helen and the wee lass, Prue. To Helen’s congratulations he would only say, “It’s your doing, lass, yours and the bairnie’s.”

Sandy confided to Helen that he had been afraid that Margaret might doubt that he and the Sandy McLeod of her youth were one and the same; but, he added: “I had a proof, I had a proof, lass! I had a lock o’ her bonnie hair tied wi’ a knot o’ blue ribbon. I knew she’d na forget gi’en’ it to me, and I put it in the letter.”

“That was clever,” said Helen.

“An’ she said she’d bring it back wi’ her when she sailed for America,” added the old Scotchman, joyously; and Helen left him happy in the thought that although her farewell saddened him, there soon would be a dearer friend to greet him.

Farmer Gray had driven to the village early that morning, and when he returned he greeted Helen cheerily, at the same time handing her a letter, saying, “I hope it is full of good news, Miss Dayton.”

It proved to be a letter from her aunt, urging Helen to start at once for home, as an uncle who had not seen her since she was a very little girl was making a short stay in Boston, and wished very much to see his niece before he returned to his home in a western city.

“I am proud of you, Helen, as you know,” wrote the dear old lady, “and I so earnestly wish Robert to see you that I wish you would start as soon as you receive this letter.”

Helen left for Boston early that morning, asking Mrs. Gray to tell Randy that she would write to her as soon as she reached home. Helen’s departure was only a day earlier than she had intended, yet she regretted to leave in such haste. She had wished to bid Randy and dear little Prue an affectionate good-by and reiterate her promise of a flying visit sometime during the winter months.

As she sat looking out of the car window and watched the little town receding, she thought of Randy’s sweet face, and like a vision it appeared before her with grieved eyes and quivering lips, just as she knew the girl would look when Mrs. Gray told her of her friend’s departure. Then a bright thought occurred to her, and a happy smile played about her lips.

Opening her little bag she took from it a block of paper, such as she had used for memoranda, and with a pencil she commenced a note to Randy. She would obtain an envelope and stamp as soon as she reached Boston. Helen possessed a merry wit, and leaf after leaf of the little block she filled with a breezy account of her journey. She described at length the man with three immense leather bags, who tried in vain to walk down the aisle with all that baggage, and was at last compelled to make three separate trips; the old lady with a box containing a cat which mewed dismally all the way; the woman with four children, who seemed to have an endless supply of lunches, yet cried for more; the boy peddling prize candy, and any number of small happenings.

The writing served to make the long ride less tedious, and she knew that the letter would make Randy smile through her tears.

When Randy and Prue appeared at breakfast time they were amazed to find Aunt Prudence at the table.

“Why, when did you come?” questioned Prue, abruptly, staring at her aunt as if that lady had been an apparition instead of a very tangible reality.

“I came last night, after you children was in bed,” said Aunt Prudence, “and I guess your father was ’bout as s’prised as you be.”

“Wal’, I guess I was,” said Mr. Weston. “Ye was the last person I expected to see when I stopped near the depot to talk with neighbor Gray, but I was jest as glad to see ye as ef ye’d sent word ye was comin’.”

Mrs. Weston also hastened to assure her that her unexpected arrival was a pleasant surprise, but the children could not say a word. Prue was filled with a dread of Aunt Prudence’s sharp eyes, which would be sure to detect any sign of plotted mischief; and Randy, knowing Prue’s intense dislike of supervision, realized that careful watching, amounting almost to strategy, would be necessary to keep the little girl from vexing Aunt Prudence, thereby actually showing her how intensely she disliked her.

Although the morning hours were fully occupied, Randy was aware of a subtle sense of change in Aunt Prudence. She looked as angular and austere as before, but her voice seemed less shrill, and her sharp eyes behind her glasses looked out with a softened light.

“Perhaps we didn’t really know her before,” said Randy to Prue.

“P’r’aps maybe we didn’t,” answered Prue. “She calls me Prudence same’s she did before, but she says it diffe’nt.”

“That’s it,” said Randy, “her voice is pleasanter.”

“And her eyes isn’t always looking at me, so I don’t darest to move,” said Prue.

Randy turned away quickly, that Prue need not see her laughing. The idea that any one could prevent her little sister from indulging in almost perpetual motion, seemed utterly funny to her.

Half an hour later Randy chanced to hear Prue talking to Tabby, just under the kitchen window.

“Now, Tabby,” she was saying, “if you lie real still while I drag you ’round, you’ll get a lovely ride and nobody’ll ever know it; but if you squirm and act naughty, I’ll put the basket right back in Aunt Prudence’s room, and I won’t give you any ride at all.”

Randy waited to hear no more, for upon looking out over the wide window-sill she espied naughty little Prue dragging Miss Prudence’s best cap basket around the dooryard. She had made Tabby lie in the basket, then pressing down the cover she had fastened the little straw loop and thus locked Tabby into a very close carriage. Out rushed Randy, to rescue Tabby and the pretty basket at the same time.

“What makes you think to do such naughty things, Prue Weston?” said indignant Randy; “don’t you know you’re plaguing Tabby and Aunt Prudence at the same time?”

“Tabby likes to ride,” asserted Prue, “and I don’t care if I do plague—” but the mischievous little elf did not finish the sentence, for on looking up, there stood Aunt Prudence in the doorway.

Randy’s face was suffused with hot blushes, and Prue, naughty little Prue, looked completely abashed.

Aunt Prudence was the first to speak. “Bring my basket to me,” said she, abruptly, but not unkindly.

Slowly Prue unfastened the cover of the pretty, round cap basket, and with even more moderation Tabby stepped out, stopping to yawn and stretch while her hind legs were still in the basket.

Prue stooped and energetically lifted her out upon the ground. Randy watched Aunt Prudence while Prue walked very slowly toward her, the forefinger of her left hand in her mouth, while with the right hand she reluctantly handed the basket to its owner.

Did Aunt Prudence smile? Randy thought she espied a twinkle in the sharp eyes behind the glasses.

“Now,” said Aunt Prudence, “s’pose you come into my room while I show you something worth looking at.”

Into the house, slowly following Aunt Prudence, went Prue and Randy, filled with mingled curiosity and dread of the thing which they were soon to see.

Aunt Prudence bent over her little hair-covered trunk, lifting aside this parcel and that until, oh, could it be true, a cunning little wooden cradle, painted bright red, made Prue utter a shrill cry of delight.

“Oh! oh! is it for me?” cried Prue. “Oh, I am so sorry I was naughty!”

Aunt Prudence put the cradle into Prue’s chubby hands, who at once held it up for Randy to admire.

“It’s a beauty,” said Randy. “Oh, Prue, you’d ought to be good now.”

“I will,” said Prue; then, turning to Aunt Prudence, she said, “I guess I almost love you now, and I won’t ever plague you.”

“Well, I guess my basket ain’t hurt much this time; but don’t borry it again, child. I guess the cradle will ’bout fit Tabby.”

“Oh, I do b’lieve it will! I’ll go and ‘medjure’ her in it,” said Prue, and away she scampered in search of her kitty.

Left alone with her aunt, Randy hesitated a moment, then venturing a step nearer, she said, “I think you were very good to give the pretty cradle to Prue just when she’d been so naughty; but,” added Randy, as usual anxious to shield her little sister, “she isn’t always naughty, and now I’m ’most sure she’ll try to please you.” She looked up wistfully, hoping for a kindly word for Prue whom she loved so dearly.

“Children will be children,” said Aunt Prudence, with a grim smile. “I guess she’s no wuss’n the average.”

“Father says you never had days of being naughty when you were a little girl, so I should think Prue’d seem extra naughty to you,” said Randy, slowly moving the toe of her shoe back and forth along the cracks in the floor. As she glanced shyly at her aunt, hoping for one more consoling word in regard to Prue, she was much surprised and relieved to see Aunt Prudence actually smiling.

“I guess your father’s forgot about the time I threw his hat down the well to see if it would float.”

“Did you do that?” asked Randy, in surprise.

“Yes,” said Aunt Prudence, “and what’s more, I did it on purpose to plague him. He was goin’ fishin’, and I wanted to go, too. He said girls wus no good at fishin’ and went to the shed to get his rod and line, whistlin’ in a way that provoked me. His hat was on the grass near where I was standing, and, quick as a flash, I snatched it up and threw it down the well, thinkin’ it would delay his fishin’ trip for one while. It didn’t, though. He went bare-headed; and soon’s ’twas found out what I’d done, I got punished for spoilin’ his hat. Yes, your father remembers my good days, an’ it’s just like him to forget that I ever had naughty ones. But, Randy,” she said abruptly, “ye don’t ask if I brought anything in my trunk for you.”

“Why, I never thought of it,” said Randy.

“Like enough,” said Aunt Prudence; “it seems to me ye nearly always think of somebody besides yourself, Randy. I must say, I approve of ye. Yer father, every time he writes me, has something ter tell of you children; and now you jest help me unpack my trunk, an’ I’ll show ye something that, ef I ain’t mistaken, will please ye mightily.”

“Indeed, I’ll help you. I’ll like to,” said Randy, and soon the contents of the trunk were spread upon the bed. Those garments which could be hung up were placed upon hooks in the closet, and other articles were neatly folded in the bureau drawers. One puffy-looking package remained; this Aunt Prudence placed in Randy’s hands, saying, “There, Randy, there’s the material for making some Christmas presents; and if it makes ye happy, I’ll be glad of it.”

Very eagerly Randy untied the parcel, and uttered a little cry of delight when the open wrapping disclosed some beautiful colored worsteds of various hues.

“I’ll teach ye ter knit while I’m here,” said Aunt Prudence. “And now the evenings are beginning to be cool, ye might begin ter make a pretty little shawl for yer mother out of that deep red worsted; I guess there’s enough of it. That blue yarn will make some mittens for little Prudence, and the rest of it ye can do what ye like with.”

Randy’s delight knew no bounds, and she could hardly wait to hunt for needles and have her first lesson in knitting.

That night, in their little chamber under the eaves, the children talked of Aunt Prudence.

“I always said Aunt Prudence might be nice, if we really knew her,” said Randy.

“Yes,” said Prue, “you said that when she was here before, I ’member it; but, Randy,” she added, “that was when I was a little girl.”

Randy stifled a laugh, “Why, Prue, what are you now?” said she.

“Now, Randy, you do know you medjured me last Saturday, and you said I’d growed most a inch.”

“Well, so you have,” said Randy, gently, “and it’s likely you’ll grow a lot more this winter.”

“Course I will,” said Prue, “and, oh, Randy, mustn’t Aunt Prudence have growed awful fast when she was a little girl? Just think how big she is now! She’s growed good awful fast, too, Randy,” she continued, “for she wouldn’t have gived me that little cradle for anything the last time she was here, would she, Randy?”

Randy ignored this question.

“We ought to be going to sleep, Prue,” she said; “but I’ll tell you something first: I mean to be just as nice to Aunt Prudence as I can, while she stays here.”

“So do I,” said little Prue. “I told her to-day when her needle plagued her, I told her I’d fred all her needles when she was sewing, and you’d never guess what she said, Randy. She said I was a good little girl,—she did, truly.”

The patter of raindrops on the roof soon lulled the children to sleep, and in their dreams Aunt Prudence figured as the Goddess of Plenty, distributing gifts with lavish hands.

CHAPTER XII—A WEDDING FEAST

“Then what’s in your pocket?” persisted Prue.

Randy drew Helen’s precious letter from her pocket, showing just enough of the envelope to satisfy Prue’s curiosity. Then the little girl took a hymn book from the rack, and with her wee forefinger commenced to point out, and at the same time name those letters which she knew. She found every O upon the page, then every S, and Randy thought best to let her thus amuse herself as, at least, she was quiet—a most unusual thing.

Helen had mailed the letter at once upon reaching Boston, and Mr. Weston had brought it from the village on the following day and placed it in Randy’s hand as she sat listening to Mrs. Gray, who had called to deliver Helen’s message.

“A letter for me, father?” questioned Randy in surprise. “Why, who’s it from?”

Mr. Weston laughed. “Shouldn’t wonder if ye had to open it to find out, Randy,” said he.

Randy opened it and laughed with delight when she found it was from Helen. She had read it three times and had taken it to church with her, because she said she “just couldn’t leave it at home.”

So Sunday morning Randy kept her mind upon the sermon, and her hand upon the letter. The sermon had been less lengthy than usual, and when the good old pastor had closed the Bible, he removed his spectacles; and as he slowly wiped them, he said: “Dear friends, I have a notice to give to-day, or perhaps I should say an invitation, and there could be no better time or place for what I have to say.

“A quiet wedding ceremony took place at a little church in New York City, the contracting parties being our friend and neighbor, Mr. Sandy McLeod,—or, as the papers have it, Alexander McLeod,—and Miss Margaret McLean of Scotland, an old playmate and friend, from whom our friend has been separated many years. I have received a delightful letter from him in which I am asked to make this announcement, and to say that they will be at home on Wednesday evening. They extend an invitation to all the good people of this town to be present, and an especially urgent request that all the children be there.”

What a stir that announcement made! What a great event!

Sandy’s farm was one of the finest in the neighborhood, and his house the largest and most substantial in the place; but Helen and Parson Spooner were the only people who had ever entered it, save Sandy himself and the men who worked for him.

Fabulous tales the men had told of the fine things which the house contained; so curiosity was rife regarding it, and now every one, even the little ones of the parish, were bidden welcome.

After church Randy stopped a moment to speak to the Babson girls and Phœbe Small, to tell them of the letter from Helen, promising to read it to them if they would call on Monday afternoon.

The girls promised, saying, “You can read us the letter, and then we’ll talk over the party, or whatever it is to be, at Sandy McLeod’s.”

Promptly, on Monday afternoon, the girls arrived, and the letter was produced and read. How they laughed at Helen’s bright description of the events of her homeward journey. Phœbe Small felt that in receiving the letter Randy had been especially favored. A little twinge of jealousy caused her to part her lips to make a sharp little speech; but, remembering a promise to Helen, and her own resolution, she said pleasantly, “You must have been pleased to receive it, Randy; I’m glad she wrote it to you.”

It was so unlike her usual remarks that the Babson girls looked at each other; but Randy slipped her arm around Phœbe as they stood by the window, and Phœbe felt rewarded.

They talked earnestly over the event of Wednesday evening, and all were enthusiastically expectant.

As the afternoon waned, the girls took leave of Randy, looking back as they went down the road to call to her, “We’ll see you Wednesday night.”

Wednesday proved to be a lovely day, and the evening sky was bright with stars, the air cold and crisp when the merry party drove up to Sandy’s door. As no one wished to be the first to arrive, a large party met at Mrs. Weston’s house and together they drove to the McLeod farm.

The large house was ablaze with lights, and as the teams stopped, the door was opened wide and a cheery voice shouted, “It’s glad we are to see ye, friends, come in, come in,” and Sandy led the way proudly to a silver-haired little woman, who stood waiting to greet her husband’s friends and neighbors.

Such a sweet-faced little woman, who had a gentle, gracious word for every new friend, and a kiss for each one of the children.

When Sandy brought Prue to her, saying, “This is the little lass, Margaret, wha said ‘write the letter,’” she took the child upon her lap and put her arms about her, saying, “Bless the bairn, will ye come sometimes to see me? it wad gae me much pleasure.”

“Oh, yes, I will come,” answered Prue, “if I may bring Randy. She’s my big sister, and there’s no one like her anywhere.”

Prue was assured that Randy would be more than welcome. Every one was charmed with the gentle little Scotch woman, who seemed equally pleased with her new friends.

They sometimes found it a bit difficult to understand her. Sandy had been so long in America, and had tried so earnestly to be like his neighbors, that he expressed himself in very good English, with here and there a bit of his old dialect appearing. His wife, however, had lived in a little town some miles distant from the city, and used many words which, while in common use in the Scottish village, were utterly unknown to her new friends. But her manner could not be misunderstood. It was unmistakably the manner of a gentle, lovely character, bearing good-will to all.

“Now, friends,” said Sandy, stepping forward, “ye ha’ all seen my Margaret, noo will ye walk this way and I’ll gie ye another surprise,” and he led the way to the end of the parlor, where he opened a door, and there at the head of a long table, spread with a feast such as no one in the village had ever seen, stood Helen Dayton.

With a sharp cry of delight Randy ran to greet her, and was folded in Helen’s arms. Then every one crowded about Miss Dayton, and many were the questions with which she was plied.

“I cannot answer all these questions,” she said with a merry laugh; “but I’ll tell you how I happened to be here again so soon. I hastened home, as many of you know, to see my Uncle Robert, who was to be in Boston but a few days, and on the day of his departure for the West I received the glad news of the wedding in a most delightful letter, which also contained a cordial invitation for me to be present and surprise you all to-night.”

“We’re glad enough to see you again,” said Jotham Potts, and a chorus of voices echoed the boy’s frank speech.

Then the feast began. Such a treat it was to Sandy’s neighbors and friends. The children were fairly wild with excitement. A giant wedding cake graced the centre of the table, and the beautiful frosting, with its garlands of flowers and little sugar cupids, delighted the children, who thought it the finest thing which they had ever seen.

A huge platter of roast turkey on one end of the table, and one of roast goose on the other, proved very tempting; and a chicken pie with its fluted crust was not to be ignored.

When these were removed, Sandy filled their places with huge fancy baskets of fruit; and still the candles burned and flickered, and the hum of merry voices filled the old house with gladness. At a late hour the happy party left, the neighbors, one and all, wishing the dear old couple every blessing, and promising to be as neighborly as their busy lives would permit.

To Randy, Helen said: “I shall not run away this time without saying good-by. I will come to-morrow and spend a little time with you, and then you may go with me to the village, where I must take the train for home.”

Bright and early on the following day, Randy was up, singing as she moved about the kitchen, as usual, trying to help.

“She’s coming to-day, she’s coming to-day,” sang Prue, as she skipped about the room, and Randy’s heart joined gladly in the song.

At that very moment Helen was coming up the walk, and as she tapped lightly at the door, Prue ran to let her in.

How bright she looked in her cloth gown and trim jacket, her feather collar and bewitching hat. She took off her wraps, as Mrs. Weston suggested, and sat down to chat with Randy.

“What is the news?” said Helen. “What has happened during my absence, Randy?”

“Very little has happened,” said Randy, “only a few things. School is to open next week; that’s a week earlier than last year, and Mr. Lawton says he’ll keep his best room warm enough for us if it takes his whole woodpile.”

“And I’m going to school,” said Prue, and she looked at Helen as if she expected to see that young lady stunned by such an announcement.

“I’m going to study reading and rifm-tic,” she added, hoping to produce even more of an impression.

Helen and Randy laughed, “I hope they will reserve ‘rifm-tic,’” said Helen, “until a little later.”

“When there is snow,” said Randy, “we can coast on our sled down to Mr. Lawton’s house, without stopping; and although I’m pretty tall this winter, I think I shall coast just as I did last season, only this year Prue will sit behind me.”

“And Jotham ’most always drags her home, so she don’t have to walk ’t all,” said Prue, anxious to tell all the particulars.

“Randy is fortunate to have such an accommodating friend,” said Helen, “and now I have something to tell you. I have been helping my aunt to make some plans for the winter, and I have really found three days at the Christmas holidays for which I have made no engagements, and, if it will please you, Randy, I will give those days to you.”

Mrs. Weston paused in her work to say, “We shall all be pleased to have you with us, and Randy will be wild until you come.”

Helen had taken leave of Sandy and his wife at their home, so when Randy’s father brought the old horse and wagon to the door, she said good-by to Mrs. Weston and little Prue, and with Randy and her father rode to the depot at the centre.

They arrived just a few moments before the train was due, and Helen and Randy walked up and down the platform, talking earnestly over the promised visit and the winter schooldays so soon to commence.

“I shall think of you every day,” said Randy, “and I mean to study so hard this winter that some day, when I write, I shall be able to tell you that I am at the head of my class.”

“That is right,” said Helen; “ambition and hard work will accomplish wonders.”

Just then the whistle sounded, and soon the train came around the curve and stopped at the little station.

Very gently Helen kissed Randy, saying, “Remember I shall soon be here again.”

Then the train started, and through her tears Randy saw Helen’s beautiful, smiling face at the window. When the last car was out of sight, Randy turned toward her father a face which was a combination of smiles and tears.

“Well, Randy,” said he, “which is it, laughing or crying?”

“Both,” said Randy, “crying because I am sorry to have her go, and smiling because I know just when she will come again. And, now, father, I am going to tell you something. I mean to be the best scholar in school this year. I’d like to be able to talk and write as well as Miss Dayton does. I don’t suppose I could do that, but I will come as near as I can,” and Randy looked to her father for his approval.

“That’s right, Randy, that’s right,” said her father, heartily, “and now, I’ll tell you something. Sandy McLeod says that if Nathan Lawton gives the use of his best room for a schoolroom to the children, he isn’t going to have Nathan outdo him, so he’s offered a prize of a five-dollar gold piece to be given to the best scholar at the school this winter. I am glad that you spoke your mind before you knew about the prize. I’m willing you should try for it, but I’m glad to know that you intended to study before you had any idea of a prize to be won.”

“I’ll make myself a good scholar,” said Randy, “and I’ll get the prize, too.” Randy never forgot that morning.

Years after, the scene, in all its completeness, would rise before her with a perfection of detail that would for a moment startle her; the old mare leisurely crawling up the road toward home; the stone walls along the sides of the road, still covered with blackberry vines, their foliage russet-colored against the cold gray stones, and their thorny stems red in the October sunshine.

Across the roads the fields were dry and dun-colored, but in places the grass was still green, and over all the bright blue sky with its floating clouds. Birds twittered in the tree-tops or flew in swirling lines above the sunny fields, and everywhere, although the trees were bare and the flowers gone, a feeling of gladness and cheer seemed present.

Randy turned to speak to her father and found that he was looking curiously at her. “Oh, father,” said she, “I was just thinking that it seems as if everything was glad for some reason this morning. I don’t know how to tell you just how I feel, but the sky seems so bright, the birds are singing, and when I looked at you I thought that you looked glad too.”

“Well, Randy, I see just what you mean. It is bright and glad and sunny to-day, and as to my looking glad, I think I ought to. I’ve got your mother, and Prue, and you, Randy, and I’ve got something more to be thankful for—something to be thankful to you for.”

“Thankful to me!” gasped Randy, in amazement.

“Yes, Randy, yes. I got a letter last night. Ye know I went down to the centre after supper, and I didn’t get home ’til after you and Prue was in bed. Well, I wasn’t expecting to hear from anybody, special, and I never opened the letter ’til I’d put the cat out and fastened up. Then I thought of the letter and sat down at the table to read it. Yer mother was puttin’ the last stitches into a stockin’ she was mendin’ when I came to a place in the letter that made me hop. Mother came, and looking over my shoulder read the line I put my finger on.

“Randy, do ye remember that day last summer when ye listened at the roadside to what Jason Meade was sayin’ ’bout makin’ me sell my pasture land to him? Do yer rec’lect how ye run ’til ye was ’bout beat out to reach me ’fore he could, and how ye begged me not to sell?”

“Why, yes,” said Randy; then in sudden fear, “he didn’t make you, did he, father?”

The girl’s wide open eyes looked anxiously up into his face as she grasped his arm and waited for an answer.

“Make me! Well, I guess not! Randy, that letter was from the big railroad company, and, val’ble as I thought the land would be, they’ve offered me more’n I ever dreamed of. I shan’t be what city folks would call wealthy, but I’ll be ’stonishin’ well off. Your mother and I will be able to take things a little easier; and, Randy, you shall have all the schoolin’ ye want, and so shall little Prue. I’d ’bout made up my mind to let Meade have that land, he seemed to have set his mind on it; and I b’lieve I should have let him have it, ef you had gone on ter Mis’ Gray’s and stopped to tea with Miss Dayton, as you intended. But for you my land would have been in Jason Meade’s hands, and I might ’a’ whistled fer it. You gave up your pleasure to do the right thing at the right time; as I said that day, I’ve got a daughter to be thankful for.”

“Oh, father,” said Randy, “it seemed a little thing to do, but I was so anxious to reach you in time that I forgot everything else, even Miss Dayton and the tea at Mrs. Gray’s.”

“Well, ye did yer duty, Randy, even when ye feared the men would find ye listening and be angry. Always be brave to do right, as ye did that time, and ye’ll make a fine woman.”

Small wonder that Randy remembered that morning’s ride! The bright sunlight of her father’s commendation seemed to outshine nature’s sunshine. The thought that she had been instrumental in bringing good fortune to her parents, who had toiled early and late, filled Randy’s heart with a gladness which she would have found difficult to describe.

Mr. Weston accepted the company’s offer for his land, and with their good fortune he and his wife seemed to have regained a bit of their youth; and they were never happier than when making plans for Randy and Prue or lending a helping hand to some friend or neighbor less fortunate than themselves.

Randy still indulges in day-dreams which, at present, are filled with anticipations of schooldays so near at hand, and the winter’s pleasures which the boys and girls of the village are already planning; and when next we meet Randy and Prue, it will be in “Randy’s Winter.”

AMERICAN GIRLS’ SERIES

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