Margaret's constant companion in her rambles was the faithful dog Trot, who highly enjoyed this new phase of life, and with him at her side she had nothing to fear.
The change brought new life to her wasted system, and as she conned over the beauties around, watched the sparkle of the running brooks, and listened to the songs of the free birds, she wished that her life was as free and beautiful.
One day while trimming a wreath of oak leaves, she thought she heard footsteps, and the low growl of Trot, before she had time to turn her head, confirmed her impression that some one was approaching.
She turned, and encountered the gaze of a stranger, who said in a deep, pleasant voice:
“I have lost my way, I believe. Is this Wilton Grove, Miss?”
“It is,” she answered, not daring to raise her eyes.
“Thank you. I was not quite sure, yet I thought I followed the direction,” said the stranger, and gracefully bowing, departed.
In all her life so bright and manly a face had never crossed her path. And that voice-it seemed to answer to something down deep in her soul. It kindled a fire which was almost extinct, and that fire was hope. Perhaps she would some day see people just like him, live with them, and be young and happy.
Old Trot seemed to share her new-found pleasure, and looked knowingly into her face, as much as to say, “There are some folks in the world worth looking at.”
She went home that night to dream of other forms and faces than those she had been so long accustomed to, and slept more sound than she had for many months.