The woman hesitated, laid her knitting on her lap, and thoughtfully smoothed her tweed dress. "You are young for that, mademoiselle, yet—" and she scrutinised 'Tilda Jane's dark, composed, almost severe face—"if a girl could do it, I should think yes—you can. He is seeck, poor man. He walks not well at all. It makes him—"

"Like the evil one," muttered her husband, clutching his gun more tightly; "if he was a crow, I would shoot."

"Let um do!" came in guttural tones from grandfather's corner.

The woman laughed merrily, and all anxiety faded from her face. "Hark to gran'père—it makes me feel good, so good. No one can make us feel bad if we feel not bad ourselves. Deelson is seeck. He is not hap-py. Let us not be seeck, too. Let us be hap-py. Allons mes enfants, est-ce que le—" and then followed more smooth syllables that 'Tilda Jane did not understand.

She soon saw, however, that an order had been given to butter and salt the corn, and presently she was shyly but sweetly offered some by the French children. Even Poacher and Gippie had some kernels laid before them, and in the midst of her concern as to Mr. Dillson's behaviour, her heart swelled with gratitude to think that she should have such good neighbours. Here all was gentleness and peace. She had never seen so kind a woman, such amiable children. Did they ever quarrel and slap each other, she wondered.

"It's getting late, ain't it?" she exclaimed at last, with uneasiness. "I must go," and she rose quickly.

"But you can stay all night if you desiah," said the woman, motioning toward the pigeon-holes. "Stay, and go nex' doah in the morning."

"No, no, I must not," said 'Tilda Jane very hastily, through fear that she might yield to so pleasant a temptation. "But can I drop in an' see you by spells?"

"But yes, yes—certainly, come often," said the woman. "Come at any hour," she said under her breath, and seizing 'Tilda Jane's hand in her own, "if it is not agreeable there, at any time run here."

"I'm 'bliged to you," said Tilda Jane, gratefully, "much 'bliged, an' if you want any floors scrubbed, or anythin' done, jus' you run over an' get me. I'll come—" and with a sturdy nod of her head, she took her dogs, and slipped out into the darkness.

"If agreeable leave your dogs here till mornin'," called the woman after her.

The little girl shook her head. "I guess he'd better see 'em right off. Good-night, an' thank you."

The woman clasped her hands, and, looking up at the sky before she went into the house, murmured in her own language, "Holy One, guard her from that terrible rage!"

CHAPTER XVI.
THE TIGER IN HIS LAIR.

The next house to that of the French people was larger and more pretentious than theirs. It had more of a garden, there were two stories instead of one, and the roof was surmounted by a tiny tower.

The outside of the tiger's den was highly satisfactory, and 'Tilda Jane smiled in weary stoical humour. Now to find the particular corner in which the tiger himself abode. The house was dark, except for one feeble glimmer of light on the ground floor. She had rapped at the front door, she had rapped at the back door without getting any response, and now she returned to the latter to see if perchance it had been left unfastened.

It had, and lifting the latch cautiously, she went in. She knew Mr. Dillson was an old man, she knew he was lame, and possibly he heard her, but could not come to her rescue. Passing through a small porch where she stumbled against some heaped up pans, she turned the first door-knob she touched in passing her hand around the dark wall.

She found herself in a kitchen. The table in the middle of the floor, the chairs, the dresser, were all illumined by a feeble, dying glow in a small cooking stove, and by the beams of a candle struggling through an open door.

Poacher and Gippie crept after her as she proceeded slowly in the direction of this light. They felt that there was something mysterious afoot.

'Tilda Jane paused at the bedroom door. Here was the lair of the tiger, and there was the tiger himself,—an old man with white hair, red eyes, and a night-cap. A candle was on a shelf by the head of the bed, and a pair of crutches was within reaching distance, and the old man was lifting his head from the pillow in astonishment.

'Tilda Jane could not help laughing aloud in her relief. This was not a very dangerous looking person. He seemed more amazed than vexed, and she laughed again as she noted his clutch of the bed-clothes, and the queer poise of his white head.

"'Scuse me, sir," she said, humbly, "for comin' this time o' night, but I thought you'd like me to report first thing. I hope you've heard from your son I was comin'?"

The old man said nothing. He was still open-mouthed and dumb, but something in his face assured 'Tilda Jane that he had heard—he had received some news of her, apart from the telegram sent by Mr. Jack.

"I've had lots o' speriences," she said, with a tired gesture. "I'll tell 'em some other time. I jus' wanted to 'nounce my 'rival, an' tell you I'm goin' to wait on you good—I guess I'll go to bed, if you'll tell me where to get a candle, an' where I'm to sleep."

He would tell her nothing. He simply lay and glared at her, and by no means disposed to seek a quarrel with him, she made her way back to the kitchen, opened the stove door, and, lighting a piece of paper, searched the room until she found the closet where the candles were kept.

The old man lay motionless in his bed. He heard her searching, heard the dogs pattering after her, and a violent perspiration broke out upon him. Wrath sometimes gave him unwonted fluency of speech. To-night it rendered him speechless. He did not wish this beggar's brat to wait on him. Hank had not asked his permission to send her—had simply announced that she was coming. He was treated as if he were a baby—an idiot, and this was his own house. Hank had nothing to do with it. He didn't care if Hank did pay her. He had money enough of his own to hire a housekeeper. But he didn't want one. He wanted to wait on himself. He hated to have women cluttering round, and he lay, and perspired, and inwardly raged, and obtained not one wink of sleep, while 'Tilda Jane, having obtained what she wished, peacefully composed herself to rest.

First though, she calmly bade him "Good-night," told him to "holler," if he wanted anything, and, calling her dogs, went off in search of a bed for herself.

Beyond the kitchen was a front hall,—cold, dusty, and comfortless. Up-stairs were four rooms, two unfurnished, one having something the appearance of a spare room left long unoccupied, the other smelling of tobacco, exceedingly untidy, littered with old clothes, fishing rods, bats, cartridge shells, and other boyish and manly belongings. This must be Hank's room, probably it had been occupied later than the other, and the bed would not be so damp. She would sleep here, and she turned down the clothes.

"Good land!" she murmured, "I wonder how long sence those blankets has been washed?" and she turned them back again, and, going to the other room, obtained two coverlets that she spread over herself, after she lay down on the outside of the bed.

The dogs had already curled themselves up on a heap of clothes on the floor, and in a few minutes the three worn-out travellers were fast asleep.

When 'Tilda Jane lifted her head from her very shady pillow the next morning, her ears were saluted by the gentle patter of rain. The atmosphere was milder—a thaw had set in.

She sprang up, and went to the dogs, who were still snoring in their corner. "Wake up," she said, touching them with her foot. Gippie started, but something in the expression of Poacher's eloquent eyes told her that, although he had been apparently sound asleep, he knew perfectly well what was going on about him.

"Let's go and see Mr. Dillson," she exclaimed, and picking up Gippie, she ran down-stairs with Poacher at her heels.

"It ain't cold—it's just pleasant," she muttered, turning the key with difficulty in the front door, and throwing it open.

"Oh, my, how pretty!" and she clasped her hands in delight. Across the road was the deep hollow of the river. She was in one of a line of cottages following its bank, and across the river were fields and hills, now a soft, hazy picture in the rain. But the sun would shine, fine days would come—what an ideal place for a home! and her heart swelled with thankfulness, and she forgot the cross old man in the room behind her.

The cross old man would have given the world to have turned her out of his house at that very minute, but his night of sleeplessness and raging temper had given him a fierce headache, a bad taste in his mouth, and such a helplessness of limbs that he could not turn in bed.

'Tilda Jane fortunately did not know that if he could have commanded his tongue he would have ordered her into the street, but she saw that there was something wrong with him, and as she stood in his doorway, she said, pityingly, "I guess you're sick; I'll make you some breakfast," and she vanished in the direction of the wood-shed.

He heard her chopping sticks, he heard the brisk snapping of the fire and the singing of the teakettle. He heard her breaking eggs—two eggs when he never cooked more than one at a time! He opened his mouth to protest, but only gave utterance to a low roar that brought Poacher, who happened to be the only one in the kitchen, into his room to stare gravely and curiously at him.

She made an omelet, she toasted bread, she steeped him a cup of tea—this slip of a girl. She had evidently been taught to cook, but he hated her none the less as she brought in a tray and set it beside his bed.

He would not touch the food, and he gave her a look from his angry eyes that sent her speedily from the room, and made her close the door behind her.

"I guess he'd like to gimme a crack with them crutches," she reflected, soberly, "I'd better keep out of his way till he's over it. Reminds me o' the matron's little spells."

If she had been a petted darling from some loving home, she would have fled from the cottage in dismay. As it was, although she suffered, it was not with the keenness of despair. All her life she had been on the defensive. Some one had always found fault with her, some one was always ready to punish her. Unstinted kindness would have melted her, but anger always increased her natural obstinacy. She had been sent here to take care of this old man, and she was going to do it. She was too unconventional, and too ignorant, to reflect that her protective attitude would have been better changed for a suppliant one in entering the old man's domain.

However, if she had meekly begged the privilege of taking care of him, he would have sent her away, and as she was given neither to hair-splitting nor introspection, but rather to the practical concerns of life, she calmly proceeded with her task of tidying the house without reference to future possibilities.

The kitchen was the first place to be attacked, and she carefully examined the stove. It smoked a little. It needed cleaning, and girding on some old aprons she found in the porch, she let the fire go out, and then brushed, and rubbed, and poked at the stove until it was almost as clean outside as it was inside. Her next proceeding was to take everything off the walls, and wipe them down with a cloth-bedraped broom. Then she moved all the dishes off the dresser, washed the chairs, and scrubbed the floor.

Then, and not until then, did she reopen the door into the old man's room. Now he could see what a clean kitchen she had, and how merrily the fire was burning in the stove. It was also twelve o'clock, and she must look about for something more to eat.

Mr. Dillson had not touched his breakfast, so she ate it herself, made him fresh toast, a cup of tea, and a tiny meat hash, then went up-stairs to tidy her bedroom.

The hash was well-seasoned, and the odour of onions greeted the old man's nostrils tantalisingly. He was really hungry now. His wrath had burned down for lack of fuel, and some power had come back to his limbs. He ate his dinner, got out of bed, dressed himself, and limped out to the kitchen.

When he had dropped in his big rocking-chair, he gazed around the room. The girl had done more in one morning than all the women he had ever employed had done in three. Perhaps it would be economy to keep her. He was certainly growing more feeble, and a tear of self-pity stood in his eye.

There she was now, coming from the French-woman's house. She had been over there to borrow sheets, and a flash of impotent rage swept over him. He tried to have no dealings with those foreigners. He hated them, and they hated him. This girl must go, he could not stand her.

The back of his rocking-chair was padded, and before he realised what was happening, his state of fuming passed into one of sleepiness,—he was off, soundly and unmistakably announcing in plain terms, through throat and nose, to the world of the kitchen, that he was making up for time lost last night.

When he opened his eyes, it was late afternoon, and 'Tilda Jane, sitting at a safe distance from him, was knitting an unfinished sock of his, left by his dead wife some ten years ago.

He blinked at her in non-committal silence. She gave him one shrewd glance, with her toe pushed Gippie's recumbent body nearer her own chair, and went on with her work. If he wanted to hear her talk, he could ask questions.

The afternoon wore away and evening came. When it grew quite dark 'Tilda Jane got up, lighted a lamp, put on the teakettle, and with the slender materials at hand prepared a meal that she set before the uncommunicative old man.

He ate it, rolling his eyes around the clean kitchen meanwhile, but not saying a word.

'Tilda Jane kept at a safe distance from him until he had finished and had limped into bed. She then approached the table and ate a few morsels herself, muttering as she did so, "I ain't hungry, but I mus' eat enough to help me square up to that poor ole crossy."

She was, however, too tired to enjoy her supper, and soon leaving it, she washed her dishes and went up-stairs.

CHAPTER XVII.
THE TIGER MAKES A SPRING.

The situation would have been absurd if it had not been painful. The next morning the old man was still in the same mood, angry at the girl's invasion of his premises, and yet so appreciative of the value of her energetic ways that he did not insist on her departure. And so day after day, for a whole week, 'Tilda Jane lived on, keeping house for the old man, but saying not one word to him.

He would not speak to her, and she would not begin a conversation with him. She prepared his meals from food that the storekeeper and butcher readily gave her on the old man's account, and exercised her tongue by talking to her dogs.

Occasionally she called on her French neighbours, the Melançons, and from them gleaned various items of information about the eccentric Mr. Dillson, without, however, allowing them to know that he would not speak to her. This secret she proudly kept to herself. She found out from them that the old man was ordinarily in better health than at present,—that he was usually able to hobble about the house and wait on himself, for his temper had of late become so violent that no woman in Ciscasset would enter his house to work for him. Therefore, 'Tilda Jane's arrival had been most opportune, for he would have been in danger of starving to death if left to himself.

Feeling persuaded of this, and greatly pleased to think that she had been and was of service to the father of her benefactor Hank, her attitude toward the old man continued to be one of philosophical and good-natured obstinacy. She would not speak to him, but she was willing to wait on him in silence, looking forward to the time when he would find his tongue.

Her only fear of his sullenness was on behalf of her dogs. He hated them—she knew it by the menacing tremble of his crutches whenever the animals came within his reach. Therefore, her constant endeavour was to keep them out of his way. She had made two soft, persuasive beds in the wood-shed for them; but it was cold there, and she could not stay with them. They loved her with all the strength of their doggish hearts, and wished to be with her every minute of the time.

Often at night she would start up in bed from troubled dreams of a fierce old figure mounting the staircase, crutch in hand. There was no lock on her bedroom door, and if the old man had a sudden accession of strength, he could easily push aside the barrier of a wash-stand and two chairs that she put across this door before she went to bed.

She wished that Hank would come home. He might persuade his peculiar parent to end this unnatural silence, and give her a chance to become acquainted with him.

"Mebbe he'll soon come, Poacher," she whispered in the ear of the dog who was sitting close beside her. "We'll make up our minds for that, won't we?"

The dog was sitting up very straight beside her, and gazing benevolently down at Gippie, who lay on her lap. They were all out on the front door-step, and 'Tilda Jane was knitting industriously. It was a day like May in the month of March—there was a soft, mild air and a warm sun that made dripping eaves and melting snow-banks. Little streams of water were running from the garden to the road, and from the road to the hollow of the river, where large cakes of ice were slowly loosening themselves, breaking up and floating toward the sea. Spring was coming, and 'Tilda Jane, despite the incorrigible sulkiness of the person with whom she was living, felt it good to have a home.

"We'll have lots o' sport by an' by runnin' in the fields, Poacher," she whispered, lovingly, in his ear, "you ole comfort—always so sweet, an' good, an' never sassing back. You jus' creep away when you see some one comin' and don't say a word, do you? You're a sample to me; I wish I was like you. An' you never want to be bad, do you, an' chase back to the woods?"

The dog abandoned his stately attitude, and gave his tongue a quick fillip in the direction of her forehead. No—thanks to her intense devotion to him, he had no time for mournful reflections on the past.

"But I guess you'd like to see your master sometimes," she murmured. "I see a hankerin' in your eyes now an' agin, ole feller, an' then I jus' talk to you hard. You darlin'!" and throwing her arm around his neck, she squeezed him heartily.

He was boldly reciprocating, by licking her little, straight, determined nose, when there was a clicking sound around the corner of the house.

'Tilda Jane released him and raised her head. The old man was approaching, leaning heavily on his crutches. The beauty of the day had penetrated and animated even his ancient bones. 'Tilda Jane was delighted to see him moving about, but, giving no sign of her satisfaction, she rose and prepared to enter the house. He did not approve of having the front door unlocked, he did not approve of her habit of dodging out-of-doors whenever she had no work to do inside. She felt this, although he had never said it, and pushing Gippie into the hall, she stepped down the walk to pick up her ball of yarn.

The dog's enemy was some distance away, and seeing him leaning so heavily on his crutches, it did not occur to her that there could be any fear of danger. However, with all her acuteness, she did not measure the depth of his animosity, nor the agility with which it could inspire him.

With a deftness and lightness that would have been admirable if it had not been cruel, the old man bore all his weight on one crutch, swung the other around in the air, and with the heavy end struck a swift, sure blow on Poacher's glossy black forehead.

It was all done in the twinkling of an eye—in the short space of time that the little girl's back was turned. She heard the crashing blow, flashed around, and saw the black body of the dog extended on a white snow-bank. His eyes were open, his expression was still the loving one with which he had been regarding her as she stooped to pick up the ball.

For an instant 'Tilda Jane felt no emotion but wonder. She stood stock-still, staring alternately at the old man and at the motionless body of the dog. It had occurred to her that he would kill one of her pets if he had a chance, but now that he had done it, the thing seemed unreal, almost absurd. Surely she was dreaming—that was not Poacher lying there dead.

She went up to the dog, touched him with soft, amazed fingers, lifted the velvet ears, and put her hands on his forehead. There was the slightest ruffling of the smooth skin where the crutch had struck him.

The old man stood and watched her for a few seconds, his face a trifle redder than usual, but giving no other sign of emotion. He watched her until she lifted her head and looked at him, then he turned hastily and limped to the back door.

It was an awful look to see on the face of a child,—an avenging, unforgiving, hateful look,—the look of a grown person in cold, profound wrath. He did not regret killing the dog, he would like to dispose of the other one, but he did object to those murderous eyes. She was capable of killing him. He must get rid of her, and make his peace with some of the Ciscasset witches, in order that they might come and wait on him.

He went thoughtfully into the house and sat down in his usual corner beyond the kitchen stove. He wondered whether she would give him any supper. He could get it himself to-night if she did not. He was certainly better, and a glow of pleasure made his blood feel warm in his veins.

Stay—there she was, coming slowly in—he thanked his lucky stars, looking very much the same as usual. He would not be slain in his bed that night. And she was getting fresh wood for the fire. Perhaps she would make hot cakes for supper. She was wonderfully smart for a girl. He had several times speculated as to her age. Sometimes when talking to the dogs she seemed no more than eleven or twelve years old. Ordinarily she appeared to him about fifteen, but small for the age. To-day in her wrath, she might be taken for seventeen. How subdued she seemed as she moved about the kitchen. He had done a good thing to strike down one of those animals. She would not have such an independent air now.

She built up the fire, set the teakettle on the back of the stove—he wondered why she did not put it on the front, and why she gradually piled on sticks of wood until there was a roaring blaze that caused him some slight uneasiness. Was she going to set the chimney on fire?

No, she was not; when there was a bed of fiery red coals, she took up her tiny padded holder, lifted off one of the stove covers, then, to his surprise, went into the corner behind him, where he kept his crutches.

What was she going to do? and he uneasily turned his head.

She had both his crutches in her hand—his polished wooden crutches with the gold plate inscription. Years ago, when he resigned his position as bookkeeper at Waysmith and Son's big mill, a gold-headed cane had been presented to him, on which was engraved a flattering inscription. Nothing that had ever been given to him in his life had tickled his vanity as this present from the rich and prosperous firm had done.

When he had been obliged to put away the cane on account of his increasing bodily infirmities, he had had the gold plate inscription transferred to his crutches where he could see it all the time, and have others see it. Now—what was she going to do with those crutches?

He opened his mouth, and for the first time addressed her. "Put those crutches down."

She paid less attention to him than she did to the crackling of the fire. Walking behind his chair, and making a wide circle to avoid his outstretched arms, she went to the other side of the stove and—

He lifted up his voice and roared at her. She was sticking the legs of his crutches down in that fiery furnace.

He roared again, but she did not even raise her head. She was holding the crutches down, stuffing them in, burning them off inch by inch—very quietly, very deliberately, but very surely. She was not thinking of him, she was thinking of the dead dog out on the snow.

He kept quiet for a few seconds, then he began to bellow for mercy. She was burning up to the cross-bar handles, she would soon reach that gold-plate inscription, and now for the first time he knew what those eulogistic words were to him—he, a man who had had the temper of a maniac that had cut him off from the sympathy of every human being he knew.

Tears ran down his cheeks—in incoherent words he stammered an apology for killing her dog, and then she relented.

Throwing the charred and smoking tops to him, she shut up the stove, took her hat and tippet from a peg in the wall, and clasping Gippie to her, left the house without one glance at the old man as he sat in the smoky atmosphere mumbling to himself, and fumbling over the burnt pieces of wood as tenderly as if they had been babies.

She had conquered him, but without caring for her conquest she left him.

CHAPTER XVIII.
IN SEARCH OF A PERFECT MAN.

Ciscasset, perhaps most beautiful of Maine towns near the Canadian border, was particularly beautiful on the morning after 'Tilda Jane's departure from Hobart Dillson's cottage. The sun was still shining fervently—so fervently that men threw open their top-coats or carried them on their arms; the sky was still of the delicate pink and blue haze of the day before, the wind was a breath of spring blown at departing winter.

It was still early, and beautiful Ciscasset was not yet really astir. Few women were to be seen on the streets,—only a score of shop-girls hurrying to their work,—but men abounded. Clerks were going to their desks and counters, and early rising business men to their offices. Market-men swarmed in from the country in order to be the first to sell their produce in the prosperous little town with the Indian name.

Other towns and villages might direct their search across the sea for European titles for streets and homes. Ciscasset prided itself on being American and original. The Indian names were native to the State, and with scarcely an exception prevailed in the nomenclature of the town. Therefore the—in other places Main Street—was here Kennebago Street, and down this street a group of farmers was slowly proceeding. They had sold their farm produce to grocers and stable-keepers, and were now going to the post-office for their mail.

Assembled a few moments later in a corner of the gray stone building, and diligently reading letters and papers, they did not see a small figure approaching, and only looked up when a grave voice inquired, "Air you too busy to speak to me a minute?"

The men all stared at the young girl with the dog in her arms, the heavy circles around her eyes, and the two red spots on her cheeks.

"What do you want?" asked the oldest farmer, a gray-haired man in a rabbit-skin cap.

"I want to find the best minister in this place."

A smile went around the circle of farmers. They were all amused, except the gray-haired one. He was nearest to 'Tilda Jane, and felt the intense gravity of her manner.

"In the town, I mean," she went on, wearily. "I want to ask him something. I thought they'd know in the post-office, but when I asked behind them boxes," and she nodded toward the wall near them, "they told me to get out—they was busy."

The old farmer was silent for a moment. Then he said, gruffly, "You look beat out, young girl, like as if you'd been out all night."

"I was," she said, simply, "I've been pacin' the streets waitin' for the mornin'."

The attitude of the younger men was half reproachful, half disturbed. They always brought with them to the town an uneasy consciousness that they might in some way be fooled, and 'Tilda Jane's air was very precocious, very citified, compared with their air of rustic coltishness. They did not dream that she was country-bred like themselves.

The older man was thinking. He was nearer the red spots and the grieving eyes than the others. The child was in trouble.

"Bill," he said, slowly, "what's the name o' that man that holds forth in Molunkus Street Church?"

His son informed him that he did not know.

"How d'ye do, Mr. Price," said the farmer, leaving the young farmers, and sauntering across to the other side of the post-office, where a brisk-looking man was ripping open letters. "Can you give us the name of the preacher that wags his tongue in the church on Molunkus Street?"

"Burness," said Mr. Price, raising his head, and letting his snapping eyes run beyond the farmer to the flock of young men huddling together like gray sheep.

"Would you call him the best man in Ciscasset?" pursued the farmer, with a wave of his hand toward 'Tilda Jane.

Mr. Price's snapping eyes had already taken her in. "What do you mean by best?" he asked, coolly.

"I mean a man as always does what is right," said 'Tilda Jane, when the question was left for her to answer.

"Don't go to Burness, then," said Mr. Price, rapidly. "Good preacher—poor practiser."

"Ain't there any good practisers in Ciscasset?" asked the farmer, dryly.

"Well—I know some pretty fair ones," responded Mr. Price. "I don't know of one perfect person in the length and breadth of the town. But I know two people, though, who come near enough to perfection for your job, I guess," and his brilliant glance rested on 'Tilda Jane.

"Who be they?" asked the farmer, curiously.

"Is it this young girl that wants 'em?" asked Mr. Price.

"Yes, sir," said the farmer, "it is."

"Then I'll tell her," said his quicksilver friend, and he flashed to 'Tilda Jane's side. "Go up Wallastook Street to Allaguash Street. Ask for Reverend Mr. Tracy's house. Any one'll tell you—understand?"

"Yes, sir—thank you; and thank you, too," and with a grateful gesture toward the farmer, she was gone.

The farmer gazed after her. "I hate to see a young one in trouble. Someone's been imposin' on her."

Mr. Price felt sympathetic, but he said nothing.

"Who'd you send her to?" inquired the farmer. "I'd give a barrel of apples to know."

"To me?" inquired Mr. Price, smartly.

The farmer laughed. "Yes, sir—I'd do it. You've put me in the way of business before now."

"I sent her to a man," replied Mr. Price, "who might be in Boston to-day if he wanted to. He gave up a big church to come here. He's always inveighing against luxury and selfishness and the other crowd of vices. He and his wife have stacks of money, but they give it away, and never do the peacock act. They're about as good as they make 'em. It isn't their talking I care about—not one rap. It's the carrying out of their talk, and not going back on it."

"My daughter wants to go out as hired help. I guess that would be an A number one place, if they'd have her," observed the father, meditatively. "Good enough," said Mr. Price, "if you want her to ruin her earthly prospects, and better her heavenly ones," and he went away laughing.

The farmer stepped to the post-office door. 'Tilda Jane was toiling up the sidewalk with downcast head. The shop windows had no attractions for her, nor was she throwing a single glance at the line of vehicles now passing along the street; and muttering, "Poor young one!" the farmer returned to his correspondence.

The Reverend Mr. Tracy was having his breakfast in the big yellow house set up on terraces, which were green in summer and white in winter. The house was large, because it was meant to shelter other people beside the Tracys and their children, but there was not a stick of "genteel" furniture in it, the new housemaid from Portland was just disdainfully observing to the cook.

"You'll get over that soon," remarked the cook, with a laugh and a toss of her head, "and will be for givin' away what we've got an' sittin' on the floor. There's the door-bell. You'd better go answer it; it's time the beggars was arrivin'."

Mr. Tracy was late with his breakfast this morning, because he had been out half the night before with a drunken young man who had showed an unconquerable aversion to returning home. Now as he ate his chop and drank his hot milk, fed a parrot by his side, and talked to his wife, who kept moving about the room, he thought of this young man, until he caught the sound of voices in the hall.

"Bessie," he said, quietly, "there's your new maid turning some one away."

His wife stepped into the hall. The housemaid was indeed assuring a poor-looking child that the master of the house was at breakfast and could not see any one.

"Then I'll wait," Mrs. Tracy heard in a dogged young voice. The front door closed as she hurried forward, but she quickly opened it. There on the top step sat a small girl holding a dog.

"Good morning," she said, kindly; "do you want something?"

"I want to see the Reverend Tracy," responded the little girl, and the clergyman's wife, used to sorrowful faces, felt her heart ache as this most sorrowful one was upturned to her.

"Come in," she went on, and 'Tilda Jane found herself speedily walking through a wide but bare hall to a sunny dining-room. She paused on the threshold. That small, dark man must be the minister. He was no nearer beauty than she was, but he had a good face, and—let her rejoice for this—he was fond of animals, for on the hearth lay a cat and a dog asleep side by side, in the long windows hung canaries in cages, and on a luxuriant and beautiful rose-bush, growing in a big pot drawn up to the table, sat a green and very self-possessed parrot. She was not screeching, she was not tearing at the leaves, she sat meekly and thankfully receiving from time to time such morsels as her master chose to hand her.

The little, dark, quiet man barely turned as she entered, but his one quick glance told him more than hours of conversation from 'Tilda Jane would have revealed. He did not get up, he did not shake hands with her, he merely nodded and uttered a brief "Good-morning."

"Won't you sit here?" said Mrs. Tracy, bustling to the fireplace, and disturbing the cat and the dog in order to draw up a chair.

"I think our young caller will have some breakfast with me," said the minister, without raising his eyes, and stretching out his hand he pushed a chair beyond the rose-bush, and by a gesture invited 'Tilda Jane to sit in it.

She seated herself, crowded Gippie on her lap under the table, and mechanically put to her mouth the cup of steaming milk that seemed to glide to her hand. She was nearly fainting. A few minutes more, and she would have fallen to the floor. The minister did not speak to her. He went calmly on with his breakfast, and a warning finger uplifted kept his wife from making remarks. He talked a good deal to the parrot, and occasionally to himself, and not until 'Tilda Jane had finished the milk and eaten some bread and butter did any one address her.

Then the minister spoke to the bird. "Say good morning to the little girl, Lulu."

"Good morning," remarked the parrot, in a voice of grating amiability.

"Say 'It's a pretty world,' Lulu," continued her owner.

"It's a pretty world, darlin'," responded the parrot, bursting into hoarse, unmusical laughter at her own addition. "Oh, it's a pretty world—a pretty world!"

To the gentleman and his wife there was something cynical and afflicting in the bird's comment on mundane affairs, and they surreptitiously examined their visitor. Did she feel this?

She did—poor girl, she had been passing through some bitter experience. There was the haunting, injured look of wounded childhood on her face, and her curled lip showed that she, too, young as she was, had found that all was not good in the world, all was not beautiful.

The parrot was singing now:

but at this point she overbalanced herself. Her uplifted claw swung over and she fell backward among the rose-branches.

The bird's rueful expression as she fell, her ridiculous one as she gathered herself up, and with a surprised "Oh, dear!" climbed back to her perch, were so overcoming that the minister and his wife burst into hearty laughter.

'Tilda Jane did not join them. She looked interested, and a very faint crease of amusement came in a little fold about her lips, but at once faded away.

The minister got up and went to the fire, and taking out his watch earnestly consulted its face, then addressed his wife.

"I have a ministers' meeting in half an hour. Can you go down-town with me?"

"Yes, dear," replied Mrs. Tracy, and she glanced expectantly toward 'Tilda Jane.

The little girl started. "Can I ask you a question or so afore you go?" she asked, hurriedly.

"No, my dear," said the man, with a fatherly air. "Not until I come back."

"I guess some one's told you about me," remarked 'Tilda Jane, bitterly.

"I never heard of you, or saw you before a quarter of an hour ago," he replied, kindly. "Do you see that sofa?" and he drew aside a curtain. "You lie down there and rest, and in two hours we shall return. Come, Bessie—" and with his wife he left the room.

'Tilda Jane was confounded, and her first idea was of capture. She was trapped at last, and would be sent back to the asylum—then a wave of different feeling swept over her. She would trust those two people anywhere, and they liked her. She could tell it by their looks and actions. She sighed heavily, almost staggered to the sofa, and throwing herself down, was in two minutes sleeping the sleep of utter exhaustion.

CHAPTER XIX
SWEET AND SOFT REPENTANCE.

She was awakened by a hoarse whisper in her ear: "Get up and go on, get up and go on. Don't croak, don't croak!"

Her eyelids felt as heavy as lead, it seemed as if she would rather die than stir her sluggish limbs, yet she moved slightly as the rough whisper went on, "Get up and go on, get up and go on. Don't croak, don't croak!"

It was the parrot with the cold in her throat, and she was perched on the sofa cushion by her head. 'Tilda Jane raised herself on one hand. How weary, how unspeakably weary she was! If she could only lie down again—and what was the matter with her? Why had she waked with that terrible feeling of unhappiness?

She remembered now—Poacher was gone. She had not shed a tear over him before, but now she hid her face in her hands, and indulged in low and heart-broken lamentation. Poor Poacher—dear, handsome dog! She would never see him again. What would the Lucases say if they knew of his untimely end? What should she do without him? and she cried miserably, until the sound of voices in the next room recalled her to herself.

She was in the minister's house, and she must get her business over with, and be gone. So choking back her emotion, she wiped her face, smoothed her dress, and, followed by Gippie, stepped into the dining-room.

The minister was seated by the fire reading to his wife. He got up when he saw 'Tilda Jane, gave her a chair, then went on with his book. After some time he laid it down. His caller was composed now, and something told him that she was ready to consult him.

He smiled a beautiful, gentle smile at her, and thus encouraged, she swallowed the lump in her throat and began:

"I'm 'bliged to you, sir, for lettin' me sleep an' givin' me some breakfus, an' can I tell you somethin' 'bout myself? I'm all kind o' scatter-wise."

"And you wish some one to straighten you out?" he asked, benevolently.

"Yes, sir—an' I thought the best person would be a minister—they said you was the best here."

Mrs. Tracy smiled in a gratified fashion, while 'Tilda Jane went earnestly on, "I'm all mixy-maxy, an' I feel as if I hadn't started right. I guess I'll tell you jus' where I come from—I s'pose you know the Middle Marsden Orphan 'Sylum?"

The minister told her that he had heard of it. He did not tell her that he had heard it was one of the few badly managed institutions for orphans in the State, that the children were kept strictly, fed poorly, and were rapidly "institutionalised" while under the care of uneducated, ignorant women, who were only partially supervised by a vacillating board of lady managers.

"Well, I was riz there," continued 'Tilda Jane, "rizzed mostly in trouble, but still I was riz, an' the ladies paid for me, an' I didn't take that into 'count when I run away."

"So you ran away," he said, encouragingly.

"Yes, sir, 'count o' this dog, I said," and she pointed to Gippie, "but I guess inside o' me, 'twas as much for myself. I didn't like the 'sylum, I wanted to run away, even when there was no talk o' the dog, an' I'll tell you what happened," and while the minister and his wife courteously listened, she gave a full and entire account of her wanderings during the time that she had been absent from the asylum. She told them of Hank Dillson, of her sojourn at Vanceboro, and her experience with the Lucases, and finally her story brought her down to the events of the day before.

"When that ole man keeled over my dog," she said, brokenly, "that dog as had saved my life, I wanted murder. I wished something would strike him dead. But he didn't fall dead, an' then I thought it was time for me to chip in an' do somethin'. I took them crutches as he can't move without, an' I burnt 'em most up—all but a little bit at the top with the gold writin', 'cause he sits an' gazes at it, an' I guess sets store by it."

"You burnt Hobart Dillson's crutches!" exclaimed Mrs. Tracy, in surprise.

"Yes, ma'am—'cause he'd killed my dog."

"I wonder he had not struck you down," said the lady, with a shudder. "He is said to be a man with a very violent temper."

'Tilda Jane sprang up, her face as white as a sheet. "I mos' forgot. I s'pose he's sittin' there this minute. He can't move without 'em, an' nobody'll go near him. Now, sir,"—and she turned in desperate haste to the little, dark, silent man,—"tell me quick what I ought to do."

"You are a child with a conscience," he said, gravely; "you have been turning the matter over in your own mind. What conclusion have you reached?"

"Go on," said the parrot, hoarsely, and between intervals of climbing by means of bill and claw to the top of a chair, "go on, and don't croak. Don't cr-r-r-r-oak!"