tended
him till he died. An' so 'twas with one an' another. It begun to seem as
if folks needed somebody that hadn't anything of her own to keep her;
an' then, spells between their wantin' me, I'd say, 'I won't face it
till I've cleaned the house,' or 'till I've got the gardin made.' An',
Clelia, that was the grief that was goin' to conquer me, if I'd faced
it; an' I ain't faced it yet! I ain't believed it!"

A sense of her own youth and her sharp sorrow came at once upon the
girl, and she cried out:

"I've got to face it. It won't let me do anything else. It's here,
Sabrina. I couldn't help feeling it, if I killed myself trying."

Sabrina's face softened exquisitely.

"I guess 'tis here," she said tenderly. "I guess you do feel it. But,
dearie, there's lots of folks walkin' round doin' their work with their
hearts droppin' blood all the time. Only you mustn't listen to it. You
just say, 'I'll do the things I've got to do, an' I'll fix my mind on
'em. I won't cry till to-morrow.' An' when to-morrow comes, you say the
same."

Clelia set her mouth in a piteous conformity. But it quivered back.

"I guess you think I'm a coward, Sabrina," she said. "Well, I'll do the
best I can. Maybe if 'twas fall I could get a school, and set my mind on
that. I can help mother, but she'd rather manage things herself."

Sabrina bent forward, with an eager gesture.

"Dear, there's lots o' things," she said. "The earth's real pretty. You
concern yourself with that. You say, 'I won't give up till I've seen the
apple-blows once more. I won't give up till I've got the rose-bugs off'n
the vines.' An' every night says you to yourself, 'I won't cry till
to-morrow.'"

Clelia rose heavily.

"You're real good, Sabrina," she said. Then she added, in a shy whisper,
"And I--I won't ever tell."

"You sit right down," returned Sabrina vigorously, rising as she said
it. "I'll bring you the peas to shell. They're late ones, an' they're
good. You stay, an' this afternoon we'll go out an' pick the
elderberries down on the cross-road. I've got to have some wine."

That week and the next Clelia made herself listlessly busy, and Sabrina
was away, nursing a child who was sick of a fever. Clelia was pondering
now on her own hurt, now on the story her friend had told her. It seemed
like a soothing alternation of grief, sometimes in the pitiless
sun-glare of her own loss, and again walking in a darkened yet fragrant
valley where the other woman had l