I said anythin'."

Mrs. Field was shaking with great sobs. "I ain't--blamin' you," she
said, brokenly.

Mrs. Green got out her own handkerchief. "Mis' Field, I wouldn't have
spoken a word, but--I felt as if something ought to be done, if there
could be; an'--I thought--so much about my--poor Abby. Lois always
makes me think of her; she's jest about her build; an'--I didn't know
as you--realized."

"I realized enough," returned Mrs. Field, catching her breath as she
walked on.

"Now I hope you don't feel any worse because I spoke as I did," Mrs.
Green said, when they reached the gate of the Pratt house.

"You ain't told me anything I didn't know," replied Mrs. Field.

Mrs. Green felt for one of her distorted hands; she held it a second,
then she dropped it. Mrs. Field let it hang stiffly the while. It was
a fervent demonstration to them, the evidence of unwonted excitement
and the deepest feeling. When Mrs. Field entered her sitting-room,
the first object that met her eyes was Lois' face. She was tilted
back in the rocking-chair, her slender throat was exposed, her lips
were slightly parted, and there was a glassy gleam between her
half-open eyelids. Her mother stood looking at her.

Suddenly Lois opened her eyes wide and sat up. "What are you standing
there looking at me so for, mother?" she said, in her weak, peevish
voice.

"I ain't lookin' at you, child. I've jest come home from meetin'. I
guess you've been asleep."

"I haven't been asleep a minute. I heard you open the outside door."

Mrs. Field's hand verged toward the letter in her pocket. Then she
began untying her bonnet.

Lois arose, and lighted another lamp. "Well, I guess I'll go to bed,"
said she.

"Wait a minute," her mother returned.

Lois paused inquiringly.

"Never mind," her mother said, hastily. "You needn't stop. I can tell
you jest as well to-morrow."

"What was it?"

"Nothin' of any account. Run along."

Chapter II

The next morning Lois had gone to her school and her mother had not
yet shown the letter to her. She went about as usual, doing her
housework slowly and vigorously. Mrs. Field's cleanliness was
proverbial in this cleanly New England neighborhood. It almost
amounted to asceticism; her rooms, when her work was finished, had
the bareness and purity of a nun's cell. There was never any bloom of
dust on Mrs. Field's furniture; there was only the hard, dull glitter
of the wood. Her few chairs and tables looke