"We've only to plant the garden," Aunt Hannah interrupted, "an' then there's no reason why you shouldn't enjoy a stroll among the trees."

Seth remained silent, but determined to do all in his power to atone for what seemed to him very nearly a crime, and Gladys decided that she must also take part in the sowing of the seeds.

Until noon the three, with Snip as a most interested spectator, worked industriously, and then, as Aunt Hannah said, "there was nothing to be done save wait patiently until the sun and the rain had performed their portion of the task."

Seth did not join Gladys and Snip in their afternoon romp, but continued at his self-imposed tasks until night had come, doing quite as much work with his mind as his hands. Twenty times over he resolved to tell the little woman exactly why he was forced to run away from New York, and as often decided he could not confess himself such a criminal as it seemed certain, because of the advertisement, he really was.

"I couldn't stand it to have her look at me after she knew everything," he repeated again and again.

There was no idea in his mind as to how the matter might end, save when now and then he had the faintest of faint hopes that perhaps she might forget, or learn the truth from some one other than himself.

During three days he struggled between what he knew to be duty and his own inclination, and in all that time the little woman never showed by word or look that there was any disagreeable secret between them.

Seth tried to ease his conscience by working most industriously during every moment of daylight, and then came the time when it was absolutely impossible to find anything more for his hands to do. He had swept the barn floor until it was as clean as a broom could make it; the wood in the shed had been piled methodically; a goodly supply of kindlings were prepared, and not so much as a pebble was to be seen on the velvety lawn.

Gladys had tried in vain to entice him away from what she declared was useless labor, and Snip did all within the power of a dog to coax his master into joining him in the jolly strolls among the trees or across the green fields, and yet Seth remained nearabout the little house in a feverish search for something with which to employ his hands.

"It's no use, Snippey dear," he said on the fourth night of his stay at the farm, after the family had retired, "I can't stay an' not tell Aunt Hannah, an' it's certain we won't be allowed to stop more'n a minute after she knows the truth. If I could talk to her in the dark, when I couldn't see her face, it wouldn't seem quite so bad; but we go to bed so early there's no chance for that. We must have it out mighty soon, for I can't hang 'round here many hours longer without tellin' all about ourselves."

He was not ready for bed, although an hour had passed since he bade Aunt Hannah and Gladys good-night.

The moon had gilded the rail fence, the shed, and the barn until they were transformed into fairy handiwork; the road gleamed like gold with an enamel of black marking the position of trees and bushes, and Seth had gazed upon the wondrous picture without really being aware of time's flight.

Having repeated to Snip that which was in his mind, the boy was on the point of making himself ready for a visit from the dream elves when he heard, apparently from the room below, what sounded like a fall, a smothered exclamation, and the splintering of glass.

Only for a single instant did he stand motionless, and then, realizing that some accident must have happened, he ran downstairs, Snip following close behind, barking shrilly.

Once in the kitchen an exclamation of terror burst from his lips.

The room was illumined by a line of fire, seemingly extending entirely across the floor, which was fringed by a dense smoke that rose nearly to the ceiling, and, beside the table, where she had evidently fallen, lay Aunt Hannah, struggling to smother with bare hands the yellow, dancing flames that had fastened upon her clothing.

It needed not the fragments of glass and brass to tell Seth that the little woman had accidentally fallen, breaking the lamp she carried, and that the fire was fed by oil.

Like a flash there came into his mind the memory of that night when Dud Wilson overturned a lamp on the floor of his news-stand, and he had heard it said then that the property might have been saved if the boys had smothered the flames with their coats, or any fabric of woollen, instead of trying to drown it out with water.

He pulled off his coat in a twinkling, threw it over the prostrate woman, and added to the covering rag rugs from the floor, pressing them down firmly as he said, in a trembling voice, much as though speaking to a child:

"Don't get scared! We can't put the fire out with water; but I'll soon smother it."

"You needn't bother about me, my child; but attend to the house! It would be dreadful if we should lose the dear old home!"

"I'll get the best of this business in a jiffy; but it won't do to give you a chance of bein' burned."

"There is no fire here now." And Aunt Hannah threw back the rugs, despite Seth's hold upon them, to show that the flames were really quenched. "For mercy's sake, save the house! It's the only home I ever knew, an' my heart would be wellnigh broken if I lost it!"

Before she had ceased speaking Seth was flinging rug after rug on the burning oil, for Aunt Hannah, like many another woman living in the country, had an ample supply of such floor coverings.

Not until he had entirely covered that line of flame, and had danced to and fro over the rugs to stamp out the last spark of fire, did he venture to open the outside door, and it was high time, for the pungent smoke filled the kitchen until it was exceedingly difficult to breathe.

The little woman remained upon the floor where Seth had first found her, and it was only after the night breeze was blowing through the room, carrying off the stifling vapor, that the boy had time to wonder why she made no effort to rise.

"Are you hurt?" he cried anxiously, running to her side.

"Never mind me until the fire is out."

"There is no more fire, an' I'm bound to mind you! Are you hurt?"

"It doesn't seem possible, my dear, an' yet I can't use either ankle or wrist. Of course the bones are not broken; but old people like me don't fall harmlessly as do children."

Seth was more alarmed now than when he saw the flames of the burning oil threatening the destruction of the building, and he dumbly wondered why Gladys did not make her appearance.

The first excitement was over, and now he had time in which to be frightened.

"What can I do? Oh, what can I do?" he cried, running to and fro, and then, hardly aware of his movements, he shouted loudly for Gladys.

"Don't waken her!" Aunt Hannah cried warningly. "If you can't help me there is nothing she can do."

"Ain't she in the house?" Seth asked nervously.

He feared Aunt Hannah might die, and even though she was in no real danger, to stand idly by not knowing how to aid her was terrible.

He failed to observe that Snip was no longer in the room; but just at that moment his shrill barking was heard in an adjoining apartment, and Seth knew the dog had gone to find his little playmate.

"You mustn't get frightened after the danger is all over, my dear," Aunt Hannah said soothingly. "But for you the house would have been destroyed, and now we have nothing to fear."

"But you can't get up!" Seth wailed.

"That wouldn't be a great misfortune compared with losing our home, even if I never got up again," the little woman said quietly. "But I'm not going to lie here. Surely you can help me on to the couch."

"Tell me how to do it," Seth cried eagerly, and at that moment Gladys appeared in the doorway.

"Lean over so that I may put my arms around your neck," Aunt Hannah said, giving no heed to the girl's cry of alarm.

"She fell an' hurt herself," Seth said hurriedly to Gladys, as he obeyed the little woman's injunction. And then, as the latter put her uninjured arm over his neck, he tried to aid the movement by clasping her waist.

"If you can help me just a little bit we'll soon have her on the couch," he cried to Gladys, who by this time was standing at his side.

Aunt Hannah was a tiny woman, and the children, small though they were, did not find it an exceedingly difficult task to raise her bodily from the floor.

Then Gladys lighted a lamp, and it was seen that, in addition to the injuries received by the fall, Aunt Hannah had been grievously burned.

"Yes, I'm in some pain," she said in reply to Seth's anxious questioning; "but now that the house has been saved I have no right to complain. Get some flour, Gladys, and while you are putting it on the worst of the burns, perhaps Seth will run over to Mrs. Dean an' ask if she can come here a few minutes."

"Where does Mis' Dean live?" the lad asked hurriedly, starting toward the door; and he was already outside when Gladys replied:

"It's the first house past the grove where Snip and I went this afternoon!"

Seth gave no heed to his lameness as he ran at full speed down the road; the thought that now was the time when he might in some slight degree repay Aunt Hannah for having given shelter to him and Snip, lending speed to his feet.

The Dean family had not yet retired when he arrived at the farmhouse, and, stopping only sufficiently long to tell in fewest possible words of what had happened, Seth ran back to help Gladys care for the invalid, for he was feverishly eager to have some part in the nursing.

Aunt Hannah was on the couch with her wounds partially bandaged when the boy returned, and although her suffering must have been severe, that placid face was as serene as when he bade her good-night.

"Mis' Dean is comin' right away. What can I do?"

"Nothing more, my dear," the little woman replied quietly. "You have been of such great service to me this night that I can never repay you."

"Please don't say that, Aunt Hannah," Seth cried, his face flushing with shame as he remembered the past. "If I could only do somethin' real big, then perhaps you wouldn't think I was so awful bad."

"I believe you to be a good boy, Seth, and shall until you tell me to the contrary. Even then," she added with a smile, "I fancy it will be possible to find a reasonable excuse."

The arrival of Mrs. Dean put an end to any further conversation, and Seth was called upon to aid in carrying Aunt Hannah to the foreroom, in which was the best bed, although the little woman protested against anything of the kind.

"I am as well off in my own bed, Sarah Dean. Don't treat me as if I was a child who didn't know what was best."

"You are goin' into the foreroom, Hannah Morse, an' that's all there is about it. That bed hasn't been used since the year your brother Benjamin was at home, an' I've always said that if anything happened to you, an' I had charge of affairs, you should get some comfort out of the feathers you earned pickin' berries. We'll take her into the foreroom, boy, for it's the most cheerful, an' she deserves the best that's goin'."

"You can bet she does!" Seth exclaimed with great emphasis; and then he gave all his attention to obeying the many commands which issued from Mrs. Dean's mouth.

When the little woman had been disposed of according to her neighbor's ideas of comfort, Seth was directed to build a fire in the kitchen stove; Gladys received instructions to bring all the old linen to be found; and Snip was ordered into the shed.

Aunt Hannah protested vehemently against this last order, with the result that the dog was banished to Gladys' chamber, and then Mrs. Dean proceeded to attend to the invalid without giving her a voice in any matter, however nearly it might concern herself.

Seth took up his station in the kitchen when other neighbors arrived, summoned most likely by Mr. Dean, and here Gladys joined him after what had seemed to the boy a very long time.

"How is she?" he asked when the girl came softly into the room as if thinking he might be asleep.

"Her hands and arms are burned very badly. Why, Seth, there are blisters as big as my hand, and Mrs. Dean says she suffers terribly; but the dear old woman hasn't made the least little complaint."

"That's 'cause she's so good. If I was like her I needn't bother my head 'bout what was goin' to happen after I died. It would be a funny kind of an angel who wasn't glad to see Aunt Hannah!"

"She'd have burned to death but for you."

"That ain't so, Gladys. I didn't do very much, 'cept throw the rugs an' my coat over her."

"She's just been telling Mrs. Dean that you saved her life, and the house."

"Did she really?" Seth cried excitedly. "Did she say it in them very same words?"

"Aunt Hannah made it sound a good deal better than I can. She said God sent you to this house to help her in the time of trouble, an' she's goin' to see that you always have a home here."

"Wasn't she kind'er out of her head?" Seth asked quickly. "I've heard Mother Hyde say that folks got crazy-like when they ached pretty bad."

"Aunt Hannah knew every word she was saying, and it's true that she might have burned to death if you hadn't been in the house, for I never heard a thing till Snippey came into my room barking."

"I hope I did do as much; but it don't seem jest true."

"Don't you think the house would have burned if some one hadn't put out the fire very quickly?"

"Perhaps so, 'cause the flames jumped up mighty high."

"And since she couldn't move, wouldn't she have been burned to death?"

"I hope so."

"Why, Seth Barrows, how wicked you are!"

"No, no, Gladys, I didn't mean I hoped she'd have burned to death; but I hoped I really an' truly saved her life, 'cause then she won't jump down on me so hard when I tell her."

"Tell her what?"

"Why Snip an' I had to run away from New York."

"Is it something you're ashamed of?" Gladys asked quickly and in surprise.

Seth nodded, while the flush of shame crept up into his cheeks.

Gladys gazed at him earnestly while one might have counted ten, and then said, speaking slowly and distinctly:

"I don't believe it. Aunt Hannah says you're the best boy she ever saw; an' she knows."

"Did Aunt Hannah tell you that, or are you tryin' to stuff me?" And Seth rose to his feet excitedly.

"I hope you don't think I'd tell a lie?"

"Of course I don't, Gladys; but if you only knew how much it means to me—Aunt Hannah's sayin' what you claim she did—there wouldn't be any wonder I had hard work to believe it."

"She said to me those very same words——"

"What ones?"

"That you was the best boy she ever saw, an' it was only yesterday afternoon, when you were splitting kindling wood, that she said it."

Then, suddenly, to Gladys' intense surprise, Seth dropped his head on his arm and burst into a flood of tears.



CHAPTER VI.

SUNSHINE.

MRS. DEAN had taken entire charge of the invalid and the house, and so many of the neighbors insisted on aiding her that Gladys and Seth were pushed aside as if they had been strangers.

At midnight, when one of the volunteer nurses announced that Aunt Hannah was resting as comfortably as could be expected under the circumstances, Gladys, in obedience to Mrs. Dean's peremptory command, went to bed; but Seth positively refused to leave the kitchen.

"Somethin' that I could do might turn up, an' I count on bein' ready for it," he said when the neighbor urged him to lie down. "Snip an' I'll stay here; an' if we get sleepy, what's to hinder our takin' a nap on the couch?"

So eager was the boy for an opportunity to serve Aunt Hannah that he resolutely kept his eyes open during the remainder of the night lest the volunteer nurses should fail to waken him if his services were needed; and to accomplish this he made frequent excursions out of doors, where the wind swept the "sand" from his eyes.

With the first light of dawn he set about effacing so far as might be possible all traces of fire from the kitchen, and was washing the floor when Mrs. Dean came out from the foreroom.

"Well, I do declare!" she exclaimed in surprise. "Hannah Morse said you was a handy boy 'round the house, but this is a little more'n I expected. I wish my William could take a few lessons from you."

"I didn't count on gettin' the floor very clean," Seth replied modestly, but secretly delighted with the unequivocal praise. "If the oil and smut is taken off it'll be easier to put things into shape."

"You're doin' wonderfully, my boy, an' when I tell Hannah Morse, she'll be pleased, 'cause a speck of dirt anywhere about the house does fret her mortally bad."

Seth did not venture to look up lest Mrs. Dean should see the joy in his eyes, for to his mind the good woman could do him no greater service than give the invalid an account of his desire to be useful in the household.

"Is Aunt Hannah burned very much?" he asked, as the nurse set about making herself a cup of tea.

"I allow it'll be a full month before she gets around again. At first I was afraid she'd broken some bones; but Mrs. Stubbs declares it's only a bad sprain. It seems that she had a headache, an' came for the camphor bottle, when she slipped an' fell against the table. The wonder to me is that this house wasn't burned to the ground."

Then Mrs. Dean questioned Seth as to himself, and his reasons for coming into the country in search of work; but the boy did not consider it necessary to give any more information than pleased him, although the good woman was most searching in her inquiries.

Then Gladys entered the kitchen, and the two children made preparations for breakfast, after Seth had brought to an end his self-imposed task of washing the floor.

Mr. Dean came over to milk White-Face, and Seth insisted that he be allowed to try his hand at the work, claiming that if Aunt Hannah was to be a helpless invalid during a full month, as Mrs. Dean had predicted, it was absolutely necessary he be able to care for the cow.

The old adage that "a willing pupil is an apt one" was verified in this case, for the lad succeeded so well in his efforts that Mr. Dean declared it would not be necessary for him to come to the Morse farm again, so far as caring for the cow was concerned.

Very proud was Seth when he brought the pail of foaming milk into the kitchen with the announcement that he had done nearly all the work, and Gladys ran to tell Aunt Hannah what she considered exceedingly good news.

During the next two days either Mrs. Dean or Mrs. Stubbs ruled over the Morse household by virtue of their supposed rights as nurses, and in all this time Seth had not been allowed to see the invalid.

Gladys visited the foreroom from time to time, reporting that Aunt Hannah was "doing as well as could be expected," and Seth had reason to believe the little woman's suffering would now abate unless some unexpected change in her condition prevented.

The neighbors sent newspapers and books for Gladys to read to her aunt during such moments as she was able to listen, and while the girl was thus employed Seth busied himself in the kitchen, taking great pride in keeping every article neat and cleanly, as Aunt Hannah herself would have done.

Then came the hour which the boy had been looking forward to with mingled hope and fear. He had fully decided to tell all his story to the little woman who had been so kind to him, and was resolved that the unpleasant task should be accomplished at the earliest opportunity.

It was nearly noon; the good neighbors were at their own homes for a brief visit, and Gladys came from the foreroom, where she had been reading the daily paper aloud, saying to Seth:

"Aunt Hannah thinks I ought to run out of doors a little while because I have stayed in the house so long. There isn't the least bit of need; but I must go, else she'll worry herself sick. She says you can sit with her, an' I'll take Snippey with me, for he's needing fresh air more than I am."

Just for a moment Seth hesitated; the time had come when he must, if ever, carry his good resolutions into effect, and there was little doubt in his mind but that Aunt Hannah would insist upon his leaving the farm without delay once she knew all his wickedness.

Gladys did not give him very much time for reflection. With Snip at her heels she hurried down the road, and Seth knew he must not leave the invalid alone many moments.

Aunt Hannah's eyes were open when he entered the foreroom, and but for that fact he might almost have believed she was dead, so pale was her face. The bandaged hands were outside the coverings, and Seth had been told that she could not move them unaided, except at the cost of most severe pain.

"I knew you would be forced to come when Gladys went out, and that was why I sent her. We two—you an' I—need to have a quiet chat together, and there is little opportunity unless we are alone in the house."

Seth's face was flushed crimson; he believed Aunt Hannah had come to the conclusion that he must not be allowed to remain at the farm any longer unless he confessed why it had been necessary to leave New York, and his one desire was to speak before she should be able to make a demand.

"I ought'er——"

He stammered and stopped, unable to begin exactly as he desired, and the little woman said quietly, but in a tone which told that the words came from her heart:

"You have saved the old home, an' my life as well, Seth. Even if I had hesitated at making you one of the family, I could not do so now, after owing you so much."

"Don't talk like that, Aunt Hannah! Don't tell 'bout what you owe me!" Seth cried tearfully. "It's the other way, an' Snip an' I are mighty lucky, if for no other reason than that we've seen you. Wait a minute," he pleaded as the invalid was about to speak. "Ever since you got hurt I've wanted to tell everything you asked the other day, an' I promised Snip an' myself that I'd do it the very first chance. If it——"

"There is no need of your tellin' me, my child, unless you really think it necessary. I have no doubts as to your honesty, and truly hope that your wanderings are over."

"We shall have to go; but I'm bound to tell the truth now, 'cause I know you think I was tryin' to steal somethin' when we were only goin' to run away so's you wouldn't know what I've done."

"My dear boy," and Aunt Hannah vainly tried to raise her head, "I never thought for a single minute that you came downstairs for any other purpose than to leave the house secretly."

"An' that's jest the truth. Now don't say a word till I've told you all about it, an' please not look at me."

Then, speaking hurriedly lest she should interrupt him in what was an exceedingly difficult task, Seth told of the advertisement, of the counterfeit money he had unwittingly passed, and of his flight, aided by Teddy and Tim.

"I didn't mean to do it," he concluded, amid his sobs; "but I reckon I'd tried to get rid of it some time, 'cause I couldn't afford to lose so much money. Of course they'll put me in jail, if the detectives catch me, an' if I should be locked up for ever so many years, won't you let Gladys take care of poor little Snippey?"

"Come here an' kiss me, Seth," Aunt Hannah said softly. "I wish I could put my hand on your head! And you've been frightened out of your wits because of that counterfeit nickel?" she added when he had obeyed. "You poor little child! If you had told me, your troubles would soon have come to an end; but you must understand that in this world the only honest course is to atone for your faults, rather than run away from them. The good Book says that 'your sins shall find you out,' and it is true, my dear, as true as is every word that has come to us from God. But I'm not allowin' that you have committed any grievous sin in this matter. Do you know, Gladys read your story in the paper before I sent her for a walk, and that is why I wanted to be alone with you."

Seth looked up in surprise which was almost bewilderment, and Aunt Hannah continued with a bright smile that was like unto the sunshine after a shower:

"Take up the newspaper lying on the table. I told Gladys to fold it so you might find the article I wanted you to read."

Seth did as she directed, but without glancing at the printed sheet.

"Can you read, dear?"

"Not very well, 'cause I have to spell out the big words."

"Hold it before my eyes while I make the attempt. There isn't very much of a story; but it will mean a great deal to you, I hope."

Seth was wholly at a loss to understand the little woman's meaning; but he did as she directed, and listened without any great show of enthusiasm to the following:

Messrs. Symonds & Symonds, the well-known attorneys of Pine Street, are willing to confess that they are not well informed regarding the character of the average newsboy of this city, and by such ignorance have defeated their own ends. Several days ago the gentlemen were notified by a professional brother in San Francisco that a client of his, lately deceased, had bequeathed to one Seth Barrows the sum of five thousand dollars. All the information that could be given concerning the heir was that he had been living with a certain family in Jersey City, and was now believed to be selling newspapers in this city. His age was stated as about eleven years, and he owed his good fortune to the fact that the dead man was his uncle.

"It is not a simple matter to find any particular street merchant in New York City; but Messrs. Symonds & Symonds began their search by advertising in the newspapers for the lad. As has been since learned, the friends of the young heir saw the notice which had been inserted by the attorneys, and straightway believed the lad was wanted because of some crime committed. The boy himself must have had a guilty conscience, for he fled without delay, carrying with him into exile a small white terrier, his only worldly possession. The moral of this incident is, that when you want to find a boy of the streets, be careful to state exactly why you desire to see him, otherwise the game may give you the slip rather than take chances of being brought face to face with the officers of the law."

It was not until Aunt Hannah had concluded that Seth appeared to understand he was the boy referred to, and then he asked excitedly:

"Do you suppose the Seth Barrows told about there can be me?"

"Of course, my dear. Isn't this your story just as you have repeated it to me?"

"But there isn't anybody who'd leave me so much money as that, Aunt Hannah! There's a big mistake somewhere."

"Do you remember of ever hearing that you had an uncle in California?"

"Indeed I don't. I thought Snip was all the relation I had in the world."

"Why did the man in Jersey City allow you to live with him?"

"I don't know. I had pretty good clothes then, an' didn't have to work, 'cause I was too small."

"Well," the little woman said with a sigh, as if the exertion of talking had wearied her, "I don't pretend to be able to straighten out the snarl; but I'm certain you are the boy spoken of in the newspaper story, for it isn't reasonable to suppose that two lads of the same age have lately run away from New York because of an advertisement. The money must be yours, my dear, and instead of being a homeless wanderer, you're quite a wealthy gentleman."

"I wouldn't take the chances of goin' to see about it," Seth said thoughtfully, "'cause what we've read may be only a trap to catch me."

"Now, don't be too suspicious, my dear. I'm not countin' on your going into that wicked city just yet. I've sent for Nathan Dean, an' you may be sure he'll get at the bottom of the matter, for he's a master hand at such work."

Then Mrs. Dean entered to take up her duties of nurse once more, and Seth went into the barn, where he could be alone to think over the strange turn which his affairs appeared to be taking.

Gladys joined him half an hour later, and asked abruptly:

"What did Aunt Hannah say to you?"

"Why do you think she counted on talkin' to me?"

"Because I read that story in the newspaper. Then she wanted me to go out for a walk, and said I'd better ask Mr. Dean to come over this afternoon. I couldn't help knowing it was about you; but didn't say anything to her because Mrs. Dean thinks she oughtn't to be excited. Did you tell her why you and Snippey ran away?"

"Of course I did, an' was countin' on doin' that same thing the first chance I had to speak with her alone, though I made sure she'd send me away."

Then Seth repeated that which he had told Aunt Hannah, and while he was thus engaged Mr. Dean entered the house.

During the two days which followed, Gladys and Seth held long conversations regarding the possible good fortune which might come to the latter; but nothing definite was known until the hour when Aunt Hannah was allowed to sit in an easy-chair for the first time since the accident.

Then it was that Mr. Dean returned from New York, and came to make his report.

There was no longer any question but that it was really Seth's uncle who had lately died in San Francisco, or that he had bequeathed the sum of five thousand dollars to his nephew.

It appeared, according to Mr. Dean's story, as learned from Messrs. Symonds & Symonds, that Daniel Barrows had cared for his brother's child to the extent of paying Richard Genet of Jersey City a certain sum of money each year to provide for and clothe the lad. Mr. Genet having died suddenly, and without leaving anything to show whom Seth had claims upon, the boy was left to his own devices, while his uncle, because of carelessness or indifference, made no effort to learn what might have become of the child.

There were certain formalities of law to be complied with before the inheritance would be paid, among which was the naming of a guardian for the heir.

Aunt Hannah declared that it was her duty as well as pleasure to make the lame boy one of her family, and to such end Mr. Dean had several conferences with Symonds & Symonds, after which the little woman was duly appointed guardian of the heir.

There is little more that can be told regarding those who now live on the Morse farm, for the very good reason that all which has been related took place only a few months ago; but at some time in the future, if the readers so please, it shall be the duty of the author to set down what befell Aunt Hannah, Seth, Gladys, and Snip after the inheritance was paid.

That they were a very happy family goes without saying, for who could be discontented or fretful in Aunt Hannah's home? And in the days to come, when Father Time lays his hand heavily upon the little woman, Seth knows that then, if not before, he can repay her in some degree for the kindness shown when he and Snip were fugitives, fleeing from nothing worse than a newspaper advertisement.

THE END.