a moment at the door to say good-night.  When the immediate subjects of conversation were fully discussed, however, there was an unexpected interval of silence, and, after making sure that her knitting stitches counted exactly right, Abby Hender cast a questioning glance at the Senator to see if he had it in mind to go to bed.  She was reluctant to end her evening so soon, but determined to act the part of considerate hostess.  The guest was as wide awake as ever:  eleven o’clock was the best part of his evening.

“Cider?” he suggested, with an expectant smile, and Abby Hender was on her feet in a moment.  When she had brought a pitcher from the pantry, he took a candle from the high shelf and led the way.

“To think of your remembering our old cellar candlestick all these years!” laughed the pleased woman, as she followed him down the steep stairway, and then laughed still more at his delight in the familiar look of the place.

“Unchanged as the pyramids!” he said.  “I suppose those pound sweetings that used to be in that farthest bin were eaten up months ago?”

It was plain to see that the household stores were waning low, as befitted the time of year, but there was still enough in the old cellar.  Care and thrift and gratitude made the poor farmhouse a rich place.  This woman of real ability had spent her strength from youth to age, and had lavished as much industry and power of organization in her narrow sphere as would have made her famous in a wider one.  Joseph Laneway could not help sighing as he thought of it.  How many things this good friend had missed, and yet how much she had been able to win that makes everywhere the very best of life!  Poor and early widowed, there must have been a constant battle with poverty on that stony Harran farm, whose owners had been pitied even in his early boyhood, when the best of farming life was none too easy.  But Abby Hender had always been one of the leaders of the town.

“Now, before we sit down again, I want you to step into my best room.  Perhaps you won’t have time in the morning, and I’ve got something to show you,” she said persuasively.

It was a plain, old-fashioned best room, with a look of pleasantness in spite of the spring chill and the stiffness of the best chairs.  They lingered before the picture of Mrs. Hender’s soldier son, a poor work of a poorer artist in crayons, but the spirit of the young face shone out appealingly.  Then they crossed the room and stood before some bookshelves, and Abby Hender’s face brightened into a beaming smile of triumph.

“You didn’t expect we should have all those books, now, did you, Joe Laneway?” she asked.