The sight of it was like a stab to her, for she remembered the place as it had been, and the shock was akin to that of seeing a loved one in the garb of a tramp.

But she smiled up at the gray face above her--Tom, too, was as seedy as the premises--and she nodded.
"It hasn't changed a mite," she said, bravely.
A moment later she paused upon the threshold, tense, thrilled, apparently speechless.

Tom was reminded of a trim little wren poised upon the edge of its nest.

This time it was more difficult to counterfeit an exclamation of joy, but the catch in "Bob's" voice, the moisture in her eyes, was attributed by her father to gladness at the sight of old familiar things.

This was pay for the thought and the love and the labor expended, truly.
"Why, everything is right where it belongs! How _wonderfully_ you've kept house! You must have a perfect jewel of a girl, dad!" "I let Aunt Lizzie go 'bout three years back," Tom explained.