Year: 1873

ness; her eyes had the appearance of
looking on other scenes than those about
her-for all they were bright eyes, as if
their light was reflected from tears rather
than from joys. Yet in the meantime
men had not been lacking who found
her comely enough to share their
hearts. And yet her disappointment had
not soured her; one might say that it had
ripened her instead. She could laugh as
heartily as the rest when occasion served,
only it was apt to end in sigh; she
relished quiltings and parish picnics, and
loved to see the younger generations at
their pastimes. She kept Uncle Johns
house like wax-work, could fashion al
butter and honey to market, sang in the
chior, read metaphysics, and had faculty,
as neighbor Kempton said, for every
thing but getting married


Patty Pratt had died the second year
Of her marriage, but in all the eight sue
ceeding years nobody in the place had
ever heard or spoken of the young wild
over Royston. He had passed out Of
mind as entirely as the leaves of that
dead-and-gone summer time; out of the
mind OF all but Peggy, in whose heart
remembrance was still green and living.


Peggy rolled out her paste reflectively,
and lined deep pan as daintily as the
tailor bee lines her nest with a rose leaf;
then she pared the apples, thinking of
the CHEEKY winter evenings when Royston
had helped her out with her stint, and
the fire had sputtered over the back
log, and the kettle had sung Oh the
hob, and heaven had not seemed
far away, since Aunt Briefly was
taking tea at brother Pratt's Sliced ap-
pies and spice and molasses, spice and
molasses and sliced apples, and canopy
of paste and the thing was done But
mind you, Peggy, the baking is half the
battle


When the pandowdy came to the tea
table, wearing a healthy brown, "Ah,"
said Uncle John, tasting it prospectively,
"that looks something like! Heydayl it
carries me straight back to the time when
was little shaver, picking up the wind
falls for mothers pandowdy. All, Peggy,
Professor Blot couldn't hold candle to
you. 1t smells as if all the spices of
Araby the blest had been let loose in it!
All! Oh! Humph! Pandowdy, indeed,
Pan-fddle sticksp'


whats the matter?" asked Peggy,
taking alarm


"That's what I'd like to know. Perhaps
it's the modern recipe for pandowdy; but
it amt no more like my mothers than
swan are like geese. Well, well, cooking
amt the art it used to be. I amt seen a
pumpkin pie that deserved the name
these dozen years, and buckwheats don't
taste as they used to cold mornings when
L was boy, and mother fried 'em"


"pm so sorry" said Peggy; "but the
deceitful old thing isn't half done. When
the top looked SO promising, who would
suspect that there was only raw apples
and dough floating in molasses under
neaths It's downright Hypocrisy l shall
never believe in pandowdies again"


"How did you bake it?' asked Uncle
John, discOnsolately.


I'm the stove oven, to be sure. Per
haps you thought that baked it in the
sum-


'Ah, that's it. My mother always used
the brick oven; and so did" And then
Uncle John pushed his chair back and
left the room.


Il never thought of the brick oven,"
said Peggy to herself. at hasn't been
used since Aunt Briefly had her shock.
l wonder if it would be safe? III try it
tomorrow if I'm alive"


The brick oven was in the winter kitchen
at Briefly Farm, and, as Peggy said,





the day of Aunt Brierly's shock. The
kitchen itself had fallen into disuse as a
kitchen since her time, having been turn
ed to account as a storeroom. So when
tomorrow came Peggy made her pan
dOwdy ready, and went into the old
kitchen to light fire in the brick oven,
matches and kindlings in hand. The
rusty door Of the oven grated on it's
hinges, as if loath to be called into SER
vice again after so many years of idle
ness, and disclosed newspaper twisted
together carelessly, and handful of
klndllngs thrown upon II, just as Aunt
Briefly had left them when paralysis
seized her. Wondering what scrap
of forgotten news she might find
in an old daily of ten years
back, Peggy took the newspaper
up with a sort of shudder, shook and
smoothed it out, and let fall from among
its folds letter, yellow, and torn, and
crumpled. She picked it up without
much concern, saw that it was addressed
to "Miss Margaret Brierly," opened it,
and read few impassioned lines from
Matthew Royston-a few lines imploring
her TO forgive his miserable exactions,
and to send him some sign of her favor
He feared that he might have forfeited
her regard; but if she still loved him,
would she write line in answer, or
send message by the bearer, or meet him
at the stile in Lovers Lane at twilight, or,
If this were inconvenient-suedt the hum
bic loVer-would she set light in win
dow of the best room, which, being sell
dom used, would signify to him that he
would be welcome at Briefly Farm?


And all this dated ten years ago! And
she had not written the line he asked for,
nor sent the message, nor set the light in
the window, nor met him in the soft
spring twilight at the stile in Lovers
Lane.


No wonder he had married Patty Pratt
Peggy came near having shock herself
at this revelation of the old brick oven,
and it was after twelve by the kitchen
clock before she came to her senses, and
vaguely remembered that she had been
meaning to heat the brick oven and bake
the pandowdy. Was it yesterday or the
day before?


Just then Uncle John came in to his
dinner. and found the table not set, not a
vegetable On the fire, the tea-kettle dry,
the mutton black as coal, and the pan
dowdy waiting for baking Had Peggy
run away? And then he stepped into the
old kitchen, and found her with the yel-
low letter spread out upon her lap, her
hands folded over it, and her eyes staring
hard at the opposite wall. Peggy, Peg
gy, what's the matter, child ?" he called
twice before she needed. Then she was
on her feet in a trice, rubbing her eyes as