er prayer,
but 'twas all about hearin' the voice o' God out o' the whirlwind; and I
thought while he was goin' on that anybody that had spent the long cold
winter all alone out on Shell-heap Island knew a good deal more about
those things than he did. I got so provoked I opened my eyes and stared
right at him.

"She didn't take no notice, she kep' a nice respectful manner towards
him, and when there come a pause she asked if he had any interest
about the old Indian remains, and took down some queer stone gouges and
hammers off of one of her shelves and showed them to him same's if
he was a boy. He remarked that he'd like to walk over an' see the
shell-heap; so she went right to the door and pointed him the way. I
see then that she'd made her some kind o' sandal-shoes out o' the fine
rushes to wear on her feet; she stepped light an' nice in 'em as shoes."

Mrs. Fosdick leaned back in her rocking-chair and gave a heavy sigh.

"I didn't move at first, but I'd held out just as long as I could," said
Mrs. Todd, whose voice trembled a little. "When Joanna returned from the
door, an' I could see that man's stupid back departin' among the wild
rose bushes, I just ran to her an' caught her in my arms. I wasn't so
big as I be now, and she was older than me, but I hugged her tight, just
as if she was a child. 'Oh, Joanna dear,' I says, 'won't you come ashore
an' live 'long o' me at the Landin', or go over to Green Island to
mother's when winter comes? Nobody shall trouble you an' mother finds it
hard bein' alone. I can't bear to leave you here'--and I burst right out
crying. I'd had my own trials, young as I was, an' she knew it. Oh, I
did entreat her; yes, I entreated Joanna."

"What did she say then?" asked Mrs. Fosdick, much moved.

"She looked the same way, sad an' remote through it all," said Mrs. Todd
mournfully. "She took hold of my hand, and we sat down close together;
'twas as if she turned round an' made a child of me. 'I haven't got
no right to live with folks no more,' she said. 'You must never ask me
again, Almiry: I've done the only thing I could do, and I've made my
choice. I feel a great comfort in your kindness, but I don't deserve it.
I have committed the unpardonable sin; you don't understand,' says she
humbly. 'I was in great wrath and trouble, and my thoughts was so wicked
towards God that I can't expect ever to be forgiven. I have come to
know what it is to have patience, but I have lost my hope. You must