As she hung cross after cross, and wreath after wreath, she thought of the poor, lonely, and peevish old woman she had seen there weeks before, and wondered if she would have any Christmas evergreens to brighten her room.
"I don't suppose a man would ever think of such things," thought Mercy.
"I've a great mind to carry her in some.

I'll never muster courage to go in there, unless I go to carry her something; and I may as well do it first as last.

Perhaps she doesn't care any thing about things from the woods; but I think they may do her good without her knowing it.

Besides, I promised to go." It was now ten days since Stephen, meeting Mercy in the town one day, had stopped, and said to her, in a half-sad tone which had touched her,-- "Do you really never mean to come again to see my mother?
I do assure you it would be a great kindness." His tone conveyed a great deal,--his tone and his eyes.

They said as plainly as words could have said,-- "I know that my mother treated you abominably, I know she is very disagreeable; but, after all, she is helpless and alone, and if you could only once get her to like you, and would come and see her now and then, it would be a kindness to her, and a great help to me; and I do yearn to know you better; and I never can, unless you will begin the acquaintance by being on good terms with my mother." All this Stephen's voice and eyes had said to Mercy's eyes and heart, while his lips, pronounced the few commonplace words which were addressed to her ear.