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 The westering sun, glowing low through the fat-hen leaves, was painting them to delectable stained-glass tints of rose and ruby and amber, as Mrs. Nye neared home that night, a basket of ripe tomatoes and golden quinces on one arm, and in the other a great sheaf of flowers—snapdragons, golden-rod, and Michaelmas daisies in all shades of purple. Ted, who had got home before her, opening the door, smiled at her decorative appearance.

“Why, mother, you reg’lar light the Point up—you look like a Harvest Thanksgiving out for the evenin’,” said he. Ted was very fond of his mother.

“Well, an’ I’m sure I feel like a thanksgivin’, too,” she returned. “I been to see the nicest little old lady, Ted, that like your great-aunt at Minster! an’ comes from ’Ome an’ all, too, down Walmer way. Only think, it took me two hours to get to ’er to-day, while I could a-reached Walmer in an hour from Canterbury, couldn’t I? only that it never struck me to go—seems some’ow easier to get yourself on the move out ’ere. But there! we bin a-talkin’ o’ the old places, till it do feel nearly as good as if I’d been a-seein’ of ’em all again—an’ she give me all these, an’ I’m to be sure an’ go again. A little out o’ touch with the times, to be sure,” she went on, bustling about to get tea ready. “’Fraid o’ the trams, an’ rubs her wash the old way, an’ never heered tell, even, o’ them sufferingettes. Ah, well, ’tis in the nature o’ things, though, I s’pose, once they’re got full ripe to get”

“Rotten,” said Ted carelessly, piling poor Mrs. Stone’s tomatoes on to a plate. “Paint for