"It is you who are good to us. But come, we will go over now; I must tell Madame Monot at once."
The explanations were duly made, and Sarah returned to her old routine of lessons; but her study-room was now the garden, or any place in Mr. Danforth's house that she fancied.
The old gentleman was better again; able to be wheeled out of doors into the sunshine; and there was nothing he liked so much as sitting in the garden, his wife knitting by his side, Sarah studying at his feet, and the robins singing in the pear-trees overhead, as if feeling it a sacred duty to pay their rent by morning advances of melody.
[CHAPTER XI.]
A welcome to the homestead—
The gables and the trees;
And welcome to the true hearts,
As the sunshine and the breeze.
One bright morning, several weeks after Mr. Danforth's attack, the three were seated in their favorite nook in the garden.
It was a holiday with Sarah; there were no lessons to study; no exercises to practice; no duty more irksome than that of reading the newspaper aloud to the old gentleman, who particularly fancied her fresh, happy voice.
Mrs. Danforth was occupied with her knitting, and Sarah sat at their feet upon a low stool, looking so much like a favorite young relative that it was no wonder if the old pair forgot that she was unconnected with them save by the bonds of affection, and regarded her as being, in reality, as much a part of their family as they considered her in their hearts.