very glad you have come. I have hoped you would, ever since your path crossed Di's, and—”

“Glorified it, mamma.”

“Yes, glorified it—that is it. Take off your things, dear, and just feel snug and at home.”

And thus the little home opened its arms to dainty Glory. The welcome extended was as gracious and as perfect a hospitality as could have been found in the grandest home in the land. There was no luxury or even plenty. But Glory saw instantly there was the happiness that goes with love. It was her awakening. A new wonder filled the girl's heart that poverty and happiness could live together like this. While Di was busy she mused.

“I thought poor people fretted and grumbled. I know I should. I shouldn't be sunshiny and nice like this. And they open their doors into their poor, bare, empty rooms and bid me welcome just as beautifully as Aunt Hope would do to our house. It is beautiful. Just beautiful! It's a bit of heaven right down here in this little unpainted house.”

Diantha put on a big apron and rolled up her sleeves. “I'm going out and make some muffins,” she smiled. “Timmie, you stay here.”

“Yes,” said Glory, “Timmie'll stay with me. Can't we play something—we two?”

“Uncrutchit!” demanded Tiny Tim eagerly.

“Un—what? I don't believe I ever played that.”

“No, 'course not. You ain't got any old crutch to un.”

Glory looked helplessly at the gentle mother, who smiled back at her quietly. But in the sweet voice, when it spoke, there was depthless wistfulness.

“Timmie means play he hasn't any crutch—that he doesn't need one, you know,” explained the sweet voice. “‘Un-crutch-it’ is his favorite play. He puts the crutch out of sight—”

“This way,” cried Timmie, clattering the little crutch under the sofa in hot haste. “That's uncrutching, don't you see? Now I'm uncrutched. You play I'm very big an' tall an' my legs match. Every little while you must look up an' say, ‘Mercy me! how that child grows!’”

The little play went on until supper was ready. Then the little crutch came out again and was put into active service.

It was a strange meal to Glory. She told Aunt Hope afterward all about it.

“It was just as quiet and nice-behaved and beautiful as any supper, only there wasn't anything to eat! Oh, auntie, you know what I mean! You know I mean there were the muffins (they were splendid) and the tea and dried apple sauce. I had more than I could eat. But you don't know how I wanted to fill that pale little lady's plate with some of our chicken and gravy and set by her plate a salad, after she'd worked all day. And pile Tiny Timmie's plate tumble-high with goodies! It made me ashamed to think of all the beautiful suppers of my life that I've taken without even a ‘Thank you, God.’”

The two girls went to bed early and lay talking, as girls have done since girls began. The topics of talk drifted through the different lessons into personal subjects.

“Do you know, I'm hoping!” the Other Girl burst out softly, with a little quiver of her thin body under the quilts. “I began to last night. I'm going to do it right from now on. Maybe it's silly, but I am.”

“Is it a riddle?” asked Glory.

“Oh, don't you understand? I thought you must, because I did! I mean I'm hoping to pass the examinations for the next grade next summer. That's just what I'm doing, Glory Wetherell.”

“Why, that's nothing! I am going to pass, too. If I get through the seminary I am going to Smith College some day.”

“And if I pass for the eighth grade I'm going to keep right on studying for the first grade in high-school. Miss Clem says I can. I talked with her the other night. She says she'll help. Oh, Glory, there is no end to this road you have started me on.”

“I am glad,” said Glory. “Auntie says for folks to keep on when they're doing well enough, and not fret about the other end of the road. One never knows what's on ahead or what may happen.”

“And if I ever get to be anybody, Glory Wetherell, remember it's you who started me.”

After a while the subdued chattering ceased, and the two girls fell asleep, Glory to dream that she and her new friend graduated together from the Centre Town Seminary, in beautiful twin white dresses, and that Aunt Hope was there and clapped her thin, white hands (but they were round and pink-tinted in the dream) when she heard Glory's valedictory.

The Other Girl's dream was of longed-for luxuries for the patient mother and legs that matched for Tiny Tim. Both dreams came to an end in a startling way.

Chapter VI.

Glory and Diantha were awakened from their rosy dreams by a sharp voice calling, “Fire! Fire!” They started up in affright, only to find little Timmie perched on the foot of the bed, crying monotonously, “Fire! Fire!” and interspersing his fire-alarm with brisk drummings of his crutch against the footboard. But though he had alarmed the girls, he himself did not look alarmed.

“Fire! Fire! Fi—”

“Timothy Leavitt, where is it? Tell me quick!” his sister gasped breathlessly.

“In the kitchen. Fire! Fire! Fi—”

“The kitchen? What part of it?—where?”

“In the stove. I built it,” Timmie said in an aggrieved tone, but his eyes were glinting with mischief sparks. “I built it hours ago, an' you didn't get up—an' you didn't get up! I didn't s'pose we'd ever have breakfast unless I wokened you up.”

“You bad little boy! So you went and made us think there was a fire?”

“Well, there is—I built it, so there!”

Glory was still laughing periodically over their fright, when they got to the station to take the train. She had the picture of innocent-faced Timmie still in her mind, and the monotonous drumming of his little crutch, between his alarms, in her ears.

“‘Fire! Fire! Fire! Fire!’” she sang laughingly. “Didn't the little scamp give us a fine scare, though! But he woke us up!”

“Oh, yes, he woke us up,” answered the Other Girl, grimly.

After morning recitations, the Principal of the Centre Town Seminary had a caller in her office. It was Glory, with a pretty little air of pleading about her. She came in, in answer to the Principal's “Come,” and stood, a suppliant, in the doorway.

“Are you busy? Ought I to go away?” she asked. “You see, I've got quite a lot to say.”

“Then say it, my dear,” the Principal smiled pleasantly. “Sit down in that chair and begin.”

“Well, then—oh, Miss Sweetwater, can't my friend graduate with me? I mean, if you let me graduate—or if you don't let me—I mean can't she graduate, anyway? She is a splendid scholar, and—and she needs to graduate somewhere! You'll let her, won't you?”

The Principal smiled. “Who is your friend, Glory?” she asked.

“She's Diantha Leavitt, and she works in the rubber factory, and studies just awfully at home, and I help her some going and coming on the train.”

“Oh, she is not one of the Seminary girls, then? She has never been here? Dear child, how do you think she can graduate if she has never been here to school?”

Glory's eager face fell. “I didn't know but you'd let her,” she said, slowly. “She's just as smart as can be. I'm just sure she can pass the examinations. It would mean so much to Diantha to pass. I'm sorry I troubled you, Miss Sweetwater—I didn't know.”

But the kind-hearted Principal detained Glory and drew out the whole wistful little story of the Other Girl. At the end, she said, “I am glad to know of her. Such a girl must be encouraged. I will keep mindful of her and see if I cannot help her in some way.”

“Thank you. I hope you can help her. She wants to do so much if she can ever get to earning. It seems as though almost anyone could learn if they had a