vocal with
notes out of the living past:--

"I'll go over an' see Still Lucy."

Her dry face, hardened to all weathers, wore a look of anguish, an
emotion that smoldered in the hollows about the eyes, and was tensely
drawn around the mouth. She was like one of the earth-forces, or an
earth-servitor, scarred by work and trouble, and yet so unused to
patience that when it was forced upon her she felt suffocated by it. She
hurried out into the fitful weather, and closed her door behind her.
With her shawl hugged closely, she took the path across the fields, a
line of dampness in the spongy turf, and, head down, made her way
steadily to the little white house where Still Lucy, paralyzed for over
thirty years, lay on the sofa, knitting lace. Hetty walked into this
kitchen with as little ceremony as she had used in leaving her own. She
withdrew the shawl from her head, saying, in the act,--

"How do, Lucy?"

The woman looked up from her work, and nodded brightly. To the casual
eye she was not of a defined age. Her face was unwrinkled and its
outline delicate, and her blue eyes were gay with even a childish
pleasure. She looked invitingly at the world, as if it could give her
nothing undesired. Yet the soft hair rising in a crown from her forehead
was white as silver, and her little hands were old. She was covered to
the waist with a cheerful quilt. Her fingers went in and out unceasingly
upon her work, while her bright glance traveled about the room. The
stove gave out the moist heat of a kitchen fire where the pot is
boiling, and the cat cocked a sleepy eye in the sun. Hetty seated
herself by the stove, and stretched her hand absently toward its warmth.

"Parson's be'n in," she said abruptly.

"Caroline said so," returned Lucy, in her sweet, husky old voice. "I
thought likely."

"He says I must be resigned," continued Hetty, with the same brusque
emphasis.

"Oh, yes!" said Lucy. She spoke as if it were a task to be accepted
gratefully.

"To the will o' God. 'Parson,' says I, 'I don't believe in God.'"

Lucy's fingers caught out a tangle in her thread, while her delicate
brow knotted itself briefly.

"Ain't that hard!" she breathed.

Hetty was brooding over the fire.

"That's what I told him," she went on. "An' I don't. I don't know 's
ever I did, to speak of. It never really come up till now. He repeated
texts o' Scriptur'. 'Parson,' says I, 'you ain't a woman that had one
son, as good a boy as ever stepped