It gave her a delightful sense of anticipation on this October day. With the half-crop husked and in the crib, she could begin to write down some of the things she desired. It gave her a feeling of buoyancy that all her hard work could not down,—a renewal of youthful desires. By careful management she could plan her time, so that there would be moments each day in which she could forget everything else and carry out this dream that was as old as herself. If the results seemed clever—the thought gave her a warm sensation of pleasure—she would show them to the children. And then,—if they were good enough,—there were several ladies’ magazines now, which printed such things. How proud the older children would be of her—Mack and Margaret, John and Isabelle.

“Do you think I could, Will?”

I’m sure you could, Abbie-girl. Yes, that was the answer Will would have made. Always kind, always encouraging, he would have said just that.

In the sheer pleasure which the vision gave her, she pulled little Grace up to her and hugged her. “Maybe Mother can find time now to do something she’s always wanted to, darling.”

Grace, looking over her mother’s shoulder, pulled away.

“Look, Mother,—who’s that coming?”

Gus Reinmueller was driving away from the front gate, and a tiny little figure in black, with huge old-fashioned bonnet, was hobbling up the path between the cedars, half-carrying and half-dragging an old black valise.

Amazed, and uncertain who her visitor might be, Abbie went out to meet her. It was Grandma,—Grandma Deal,—eighty years old, with a thousand wrinkles in her little shriveled brown face.

“Why, Grandma Deal!”

“Well, Abbie, I’ve come to live with you. I’d rather live with you than any of my own blood. It won’t be long, though. I shan’t last long. Why didn’t I die when Pa did? What makes old folks hang on when they ain’t no good any more to their relatives? What makes my daughters so hard to get along with?”

Abbie could scarcely believe it,—that Grandma Deal had packed up and come alone out to her. What could she do with her? How could she take care of her? In kaleidoscopic fashion her thoughts tumbled about. Why, it was all she could do to help Isabelle at the Academy, to give John assistance sometimes, look after the house and farm-work, and take care of little Grace. And this last plan,—this new thing of writing she was just planning to do. Why, it would take time to do it! How could she add Grandma Deal to her burdens?

Grandma stood in the pathway, the old valise by her side.

“Maybe you don’t want me?” her voice rose thin and querulous. “Maybe you’re like all the rest of ’em. Maybe I’d better go back. I won’t go back to Regina’s though, that’s sure.”

“Oh, Will, how can I ever take care of her, too?”

She’s my mother, Abbie-girl.

Abbie put warm, tender arms around the little old black figure.