reshment "did not seem to amount to much,"
Betsey thought as she watched her sitting in the firelight after Jacob
went away. Not many people had ever seen on Elizabeth's face the look
it wore now. She seemed to have forgotten that there was any one to
see. Except that she raised her head now and then to listen for sounds
in her father's room, she sat perfectly motionless, "limp and hopeless,"
Betsey said to herself, and after a little she said aloud:

"Cousin Lizzie, you are not going to be `swallowed up of overmuch
sorrow,' are you? That would be rebellion, and there is no deeper deep
of misery to a Christian than that."

Elizabeth looked up startled.

"I don't think I rebel, but--"

"You have been expecting this for a good while. Your father is a very
old man now, Lizzie."

"He is all I have got."

"You said that to me before, but that is not so. He isn't all you've
got by many."

"He is the only one who has needed me ever. When he is gone, there will
not be one left in the world who might not do without me as well as not,
though perhaps there are one or two who might not think so for a little
while."

"Well, that may be said of most folks, I guess, but of you with less
truth than of most."

Elizabeth made a movement of dissent.

"You are young enough to make friends, and it is easy for you to make
them. I don't believe anybody ever saw your face who didn't want to see
it again. You want to do good in the world, and you have the means and
the natural gifts for doing it, and that is happiness."

Elizabeth raised herself up and looked at her in amazement.

"How you talk, Cousin Betsey!" said she.

"Well, that's the way I feel about it. No matter what trouble you may
be going through now, there is the other side, and when you get there
you'll find good work to do, because you have the heart to do it. And
you'll get your wages--rest, and a quiet mind."

Elizabeth's eyes were on the red embers again, but the expression of her
face had changed a little. Betsey moved so that her own face would be
in the shadow, and then she went on:

"You may think it an unnatural thing for me to say, cousin, but I feel
as if there would be more gone from my life than from yours, when Uncle
Gershom goes. More in comparison with what will be left."

Elizabeth said nothing to this.

"Do you remember the two or three elms there are left on the side of the
hill, just beyond the Scott school-house? There were a