Aaron Bade. At the end of a week he felt that he had nothing to
regret. He was active and spry, and believed himself to be useful. In
fact, he could not remember when he had been so happy. High on his
hill, he heard October's skyey gales go by above his head, and in the
noonday drowse, watched, from the shade of a tree, the crows fly out
across the valley, with creaking wings and harsh, discordant cries. In
the early morning, he came tip-toeing down the stairs; from the open
doorway he marked day rise above the east in bands of yellow light, and
saw the foggy clouds of dawn slip quietly away, rising from the
valleys, drifting across the hills; in the afternoon he labored in the
fields, and at night, his tired body filled his mind with comfortable
thoughts.

On his way to lunch, he stopped at the woodpile to get an armful of
kindling for Mrs. Bade. The sober way she looked at him as he came in,
hid from all but herself the almost voluptuous pleasure it gave her
merely to be waited on, a pleasure she was more than half afraid to
enjoy, for fear at jealous heaven might take it away, and leave her
with all her work to do, and bad habits besides.

Therefore, as she ladled out potatoes, two to a plate, she seemed, to
look at her, busier than ever; and far from being grateful, might have
been used to favors every day of her life, whereas all the while she
was saying ecstatically to herself, "Lord, make me humble."

For she saw in Mr. Jeminy all she had fancied as a girl, and lost hope
in as a woman. Life . . . life was, then, to be had--leastways, a view
of it, a good view of it--was to be heard of, by special act of Grace,
on Bade's Farm, at Adams' Forge--of all places. So she dressed in her
neatest, and was kinder than ever to Aaron, who was missing it. For