and very set in her ways, she was much respected, and one
acquaintance vied with another in making up for her melancholy
seclusion by bringing her all the news they could gather. She had been
left alone many years before by the sudden death of her husband from
sunstroke, and though she was by no means poor, she had, as some one
said, "such a pretty way of taking a little present that you couldn't
help being pleased when you gave her anything."

For a lover of society, such a life must have had its difficulties at
times, except that the Ridge road was more traveled than any other in
the township, and Mrs. Crane had invented a system of signals, to
which she always resorted in case of wishing to speak to some one of
her neighbors.

The afternoon was wearing late, one day toward the end of summer, and
Mercy Crane sat in her doorway dressed in a favorite old-fashioned
light calico and a small shoulder shawl figured with large palm
leaves. She was making some tatting of a somewhat intricate pattern;
she believed it to be the prettiest and most durable of trimmings, and
having decorated her own wardrobe in the course of unlimited leisure,
she was now making a few yards apiece for each of her more intimate
friends, so that they might have something to remember her by. She
kept glancing up the road as if she expected some one, but the time
went slowly by, until at last a woman appeared to view, walking fast,
and carrying a large bundle in a checked handkerchief.

Then Mercy Crane worked steadily for a short time without looking up,
until the desired friend was crossing the grass between the dusty road
and the steps. The visitor was out of breath, and did not respond to
the polite greeting of her hostess until she had recovered herself to
her satisfaction. Mrs. Crane made her the kind offer of a glass of
water or a few peppermints, but was answered only by a shake of the
head, so she resumed her work for a time until the silence should be
broken.

"I have come from the house of mourning," said Sarah Ellen Dow at
last, unexpectedly.

"You don't tell me that Sister Barsett"--

"She's left us this time, she's really gone," and the excited
news-bringer burst into tears. The poor soul was completely
overwrought; she looked tired and wan, as if she had spent her forces
in sympathy as well as hard work. She felt in her great bundle for a
pocket handkerchief, but was not successful in the search, and finally
produced a faded gi