oss to you, I can
tell you. You'll never find nobody to do for you like her. There, you
won't realize nothing about it till you've got older'n you be now;
but the time'll come when"--and her sharp voice faltered; for Nan had
turned to look full in her face, had stopped still in the frozen road,
dropped the pail unconsciously and given a little cry, and in another
moment was running as a chased wild creature does toward the refuge of
its nest. The doctor's horse was fastened at the head of the lane, and
Nan knew at last, what any one in the neighborhood could have told her
many days before, that her grandmother was going to die. Mrs. Meeker
stared after her with a grieved sense of the abrupt ending of the
coveted interview, then she recovered her self-possession, and,
picking up the forsaken pail, stepped lightly over the ruts and frozen
puddles, following Nan eagerly in the hope of witnessing more of such
extraordinary behavior, and with the design of offering her services
as watcher or nurse in these last hours. At any rate the pail and the
milk, which had not been spilt, could not be left in the road.

So the first chapter of the child's life was ended in the early winter
weather. There was a new unsheltered grave on the slope above the
river, the farm-house door was shut and locked, and the light was out
in the kitchen window. It had been a landmark to those who were used
to driving along the road by night, and there were sincere mourners
for the kindly woman who had kept a simple faith and uprightness all
through her long life of trouble and disappointment. Nan and the cat
had gone to live in the village, and both, being young, had taken the
change with serenity; though at first a piteous sorrow had been waked
in the child's heart, a keen and dreadful fear of the future. The past
seemed so secure and pleasant, as she looked back, and now she was in
the power of a fateful future which had begun with something like a
whirlwind that had swept over her, leaving nothing unchanged. It
seemed to her that this was to be incessant, and that being grown up
was to be at the mercy of sorrow and uncertainty. She was pale and
quiet during her last days in the old home, answering questions and
obeying directions mechanically; but usually sitting in the least
visited part of the kitchen, watching the neighbors as they examined
her grandmother's possessions, and properly disposed of the contents
of the house. Sometimes a spark fle