We drew near the junction where I must leave her within a mile of the town.  The cat was clawing indignantly at the basket, and her mistress grew as impatient of the car.  She began to look very old and pale, my poor fellow-traveler, and said that she felt dizzy, going so fast.  Presently the friendly red-cheeked young brakeman came along, bringing the carpet-bag and other possessions, and insisted upon taking the alarmed cat beside, in spite of an aggressive paw that had worked its way through the wicker prison.  Mrs. Peet watched her goods disappear with suspicious eyes, and clutched her bundle-handkerchief as if it might be all that she could save.  Then she anxiously got to her feet, much too soon, and when I said good-by to her at the car door she was ready to cry.  I pointed to the car which she was to take next on the branch line of railway, and I assured her that it was only a few minutes’ ride to Shrewsbury, and that I felt certain she would find somebody waiting.  The sight of that worn, thin figure adventuring alone across the platform gave my heart a sharp pang as the train carried me away.

Some of the passengers who sat near asked me about my old friend with great sympathy, after she had gone.  There was a look of tragedy about her, and indeed it had been impossible not to get a good deal of her history, as she talked straight on in the same tone, when we stopped at a station, as if the train were going at full speed, and some of her remarks caused pity and amusements by turns.  At the last minute she said, with deep self-reproach, “Why, I haven’t asked a word about your folks; but you’d ought to excuse such an old stray hen as I be.”

In the spring I was driving by on what the old people of my native town call the sheep-lands road, and the sight of Mrs. Peet’s former home brought our former journey freshly to my mind.  I had last heard from her just after she got to Shrewsbury, when she had sent me a message.

“Have you ever heard how she got on?” I eagerly asked my companion.

“Didn’t I tell you that I met her in Shrewsbury High Street one day?” I was answered.  “She seemed perfectly delighted with everything.  Her nieces have laid up a good bit of money, and are soon to leave the mill, and most thankful to have old Mrs. Peet with them.  Somebody told me that they wished to buy the farm here, and come back to live, but she wouldn’t hear of it, and thought they would miss too many privileges.  She has been going to concerts and lectures this winter, and insists that Isaiah did her a good turn.”

We both laughed.  My own heart was filled with joy, for the uncertain, lonely face of this homeless old woman had often haunted me.  The rain-blackened little house did certainly look dreary, and a whole lifetime of patient toil had left few traces.  The pucker-pear tree was in full bloom, however, and gave a welcome gaiety to the deserted door-yard.

A little way beyond we met Isaiah Peet, the prosperous money-lender, who had cheated the old woman of her own.  I fancied that he looked somewhat ashamed, as he recognized us.  To my surprise, he stopped his horse in most social fashion.