“Ye look like a picter, by all the world,” said Aunt Hepsy, pausing to admire her; and Lucy’s answer was a silvery laugh, so full of perfect happiness and content, that a silent bird on the window ledge caught the infection and burst into song.

“I’m going to the post-office to see if there’s a letter from Tom, Aunt Hepsy,” she said; “and then to Dovecot, to see Mrs. George Keane.  I’ll be back sure before dark.”

“Ye’d better,” said Aunt Hepsy, with something of her ancient grimness.  “The house ain’t worth livin’ in when ye’re out.”

Lucy came close to Aunt Hepsy, and laying her gloved hands on her shoulders, bent tender, beaming eyes on her face.  “It makes me so thankful, auntie, to think you miss me, and are glad when I come back.  I don’t suppose there’s a happier girl anywhere than I am.”

“Nor a happier pair than ye make yer uncle an’ me,” said Aunt Hepsy softly.  “Off ye go, ye waste my time like anything; time was when I’d make ye fly round considerable if ye’d ventured.”

Lucy laughed, and went her way, turning aside as she went through the paddock for a pleasant word with Uncle Josh ploughing in the low meadow.  He stopped his team to watch the pretty girlish figure out of sight.  Crossing the bridge she met Ebenezer going with a letter to Thankful Rest.  It was for her, and in Tom’s handwriting.  There was no need for her to go down to the town, and she turned in the direction of the Dovecot, which was the name of the pretty home occupied by George Keane and his wife.  It was midway between the Red House and the parsonage, and fifteen minutes’ leisurely walking brought her to it.  Miss Goldthwaite had been married four years past, and had one little son, the joy and torment of her life.  He was in bed, however, when Lucy called, so there was a chance of a moment’s quiet talk.

“I have had a letter from Tom to-night, Carrie,” she said when the first greetings were over.  “His picture has sold for five hundred dollars.”

“O Lucy, I am so glad.  Such a success for a young artist!  How proud Robert will be of his pupil.”

Lucy’s eyes beamed her pride, though she said very little.

“Frank is here,” said Mrs. Keane after a moment.  “He is out somewhere with George; let us find them, and communicate the good news.  What will Aunt Hepsy say?”

They rose and went out into the sweet spring twilight and found Mr. Goldthwaite and Mr. George Keane in the garden at the back.  There were warm congratulations from both, and an hour slipped away in discussing the artist, his work and prospects, till Lucy remembered her promise to Aunt Hepsy, and said that she must be going.  Mr. Goldthwaite would return too, he said, as it was growing late.  His sister fancied Lucy’s company was an inducement to him to leave so early, but she discreetly held her peace.

It was almost dark, though the lamp was not lit at Thankful Rest, when Lucy reached home.