ire.  Though she did not remember much about “Abby,” she knew that, had she lived, Richard would have been her brother; and somehow he seemed to her just like one now, she said to Mrs. Markham, as she hemmed his pocket handkerchiefs, working his initials in the corner with pink floss, and upon the last and best, the one which had cost sixty-two and a half cents, venturing to weave her own hair, which was long, and glossy, and black, as Abigail’s had been.  Several times a week during Richard’s absence, she visited Mrs. Markham, inquiring always after “the Judge,” and making herself so agreeable and useful, too, in clear-starching and doing up Mrs. Markham’s caps, and in giving receipts for sundry new and economical dishes, that the good woman herself frequently doubted if Richard could do better than take the black-eyed Melinda; and when he told her of Ethelyn Grant, she experienced a feeling of disappointment and regret, doubting much if a Boston girl, with Boston notions, would make her as happy as the plainer Melinda, who knew all her ways.  Something of this she said to her son, omitting, of course, that part of her thoughts which referred to Melinda.  With Mrs. Jones, however, it was different.  In her surprise and disappointment she let fall some remarks which opened Richard’s eyes a little, and made him look at her half amused and half sorry, as, suspending her employment of paring apples for the dinner pie she put the corner of her apron to her eyes, and “hoped the new bride would not have many airs, and would put up with his mother’s ways.

“You,” and here the apron and hand with the knife in it came down from her eyes—­“you’ll excuse me, Richard, for speaking so plain, but you seem like my own boy, and I can’t help it.  Your mother is the best and cleverest woman in the world, but she has some peculiarities which a Boston girl may not put up with, not being used to them as Melin—­I mean, as poor Abigail was.”

It was the first time it had ever occurred to Richard that his mother had peculiarities, and even now he did not know what they were.  Taking her all in all, she was as nearly perfect, he thought, as a woman well could be, and on his way home from his interview with Mrs. Jones he pondered in his mind what she could mean, and then wondered if for the asking he could have taken Melinda Jones to the fireside where he was going to install Ethelyn Grant.  There was a comical smile about his mouth as he thought how little either Melinda or Abigail would suit him now; and then, by way of making amends for what seemed disrespect to the dead, he went round to the sunken grave where Abigail had slept for so many years, and stood again just where he had stood that day when he fancied the light from his heart had gone out forever.  But he could not bring back the olden feeling, or wish that Abigail had lived.

“She is happy now—­happier than I could have made her.  It is better as it is,” he said, as he walked away to Daisy’s grave, where his tears dropped just as they always did when he stood by the sod which covered the fairest, brightest, purest being he had ever known, except his Ethie.