“Mother, Jane M. Louder.”

When Tilly read the letter she was surrounded by wall-paper and carpet samples.  Her eyes grew moist before she laid it down; but she set her mouth more firmly.

“It is an awful short time, but I’ve just got to hurry and have it over before she comes,” said she.

Next week Jane returned.  She was on the train, waiting in her seat in the car, when Captain Ferguson handed her Tilly’s last letter, which had lain in the post-office for three days.

It was very short: 

“Dear mother:  I shall be very glad indeed to see you. 
I have a surprise which I hope will be pleasant for you;
anyhow, I truly have meant it for your happiness. 
         Your affectionate daughter,
                           M. E. Louder.”

There must have been, despite her shrewd sense, an obtuse streak in Tilly, else she would never have written that letter.  Jane read it twice.  The paper rattled in her hands.  “Tilly has moved while I was gone,” she said; “I never shall live in the block again.”  She dropped her veil over her face.  She sat very quietly in her seat; but the conductor who came for her ticket watched her sharply, she seemed so dazed by his demand and was so long in finding the ticket.

The train rumbled and hissed through darkening cornfields, into scattered yellow lights of low houses, into angles of white light of street-arcs and shop-windows, into the red and blue lights dancing before the engines in the station.

“Mother!” cried Tilly’s voice.

Jane let her and Harry Lossing take all her bundles and lift her out of the car.  Whether she spoke a word she could not tell.  She did rouse a little at the vision of the Lossing carriage glittering at the street corner; but she had not the sense to thank Harry Lossing, who placed her in the carriage and lifted his hat in farewell.

“What’s he doing all that for, Tilly?” cried she; “there ain’t—­
there ain’t nobody dead--Maria Carleton ------” She stared
at Tilly wildly.

Tilly was oddly moved, though she tried to speak lightly. 
“No, no, there ain’t nothing wrong, at all. 
It’s because you’ve done so much for the Russians—­
and other folks!  Now, ma, I’m going to be mysterious. 
You must shut your eyes and shut your mouth until I tell you. 
That’s a dear ma.”

It was vaguely comforting to have Tilly so affectionate. 
“I’m a wicked, ungrateful woman to be so wretched,”
thought Jane; “I’ll never let Tilly know how I felt.”

In a surprisingly short time the carriage stopped. 
“Now, ma,” said Tilly.

A great blaze of light seemed all about Jane Louder. 
There were the dear familiar windows of the Lossing block.

“Come up-stairs, ma,” said Tilly.

She followed like one in a dream; and like one in a dream she was pushed into her own old parlor.  The old parlor, but not quite the old parlor; hung with new wall-paper, shining with new paint, soft under her feet with a new carpet, it looked to Jane Louder like fairyland.