up the straight little path from the door to the gate. And that was about all the sign of life outside the gray old house. A stranger's first thought might have been "there are no children at this place," and there were none.
But one day the bent-backed little mail-carrier, who trudged so many miles every day that he had become a sort of walking machine, brought the minister a letter which changed the face of life for him.
He was in his study—a stern-looking room, with stiff, uncomfortable chairs set firmly back against the walls, and a big square table with a faded brown cloth on it, a huge inkstand in the centre of the cloth, and a pile of books beside it—when Eppie, the red-checked Manse housekeeper, took it to him.
The minister's pale face grew paler as he read that letter, and presently he laid it down on the table and laid his head on
