CHAPTER XLII.
CLEARING AND CLOUDY.
It was summer again, and Aunt Martha sat sewing in the hardest of wooden chairs, erect, motionless.

Yet all the bleakness of the room was conquered by the victorious bloom of Amy's cheeks, and the tender maidenliness of Amy's manner, and the winning, human, sympathetic sweetness which was revealed in every word and look of Amy, who sat beside her aunt, talking.
"Amy, Lawrence Newt has been here." The young woman looked almost troubled.
"No, Amy, I know you did not tell him," said Aunt Martha.

"I was all alone here, as usual, and heard a knock.

I cried, 'Who's there ?' for I was afraid to open the door, lest I should see some old friend.

'A friend,' was the reply.