e 'd done; but 't wa'n't
no time for real conversation whilst we was to the table, and before we
got quite through the doctor come hurryin' along, an' I had to leave.
He asked us if we 'd had a good talk, as we come out, an' I could n't
help laughing to myself; but she said quite hearty that she 'd had a
nice visit from me. She appeared well satisfied, Mis' Fulham did; but
for me, I was disappointed; an' early that fall she died."

Abby Pendexter was laughing like a girl; the speaker's tone had grown
more and more complaining. "I do call that a funny experience," she
said. "'Better a dinner o' herbs.' I guess that text must ha' risen
to your mind in connection. You must tell that to Aunt Cynthy, if
conversation seems to fail." And she laughed again, but Mrs. Hand
still looked solemn and reproachful.

"Here we are; there 's Aunt Cynthy's lane right ahead, there by the
great yellow birch," said Abby. "I must say, you 've made the way seem
very short, Mis' Hand."

III.

Old Aunt Cynthia Dallett sat in her high-backed rocking-chair by the
little north window, which was her favorite dwelling-place.

"New Year's Day again," she said, aloud,--"New Year's Day again!" And
she folded her old bent hands, and looked out at the great woodland
view and the hills without really seeing them, she was lost in so deep
a reverie. "I 'm gittin' to be very old," she added, after a little
while.

It was perfectly still in the small gray house. Outside in the
apple-trees there were some blue-jays flitting about and calling
noisily, like schoolboys fighting at their games. The kitchen was full
of pale winter sunshine. It was more like late October than the first
of January, and the plain little room seemed to smile back into the
sun's face. The outer door was standing open into the green dooryard,
and a fat small dog lay asleep on the step. A capacious cupboard stood
behind Mrs. Dallett's chair and kept the wind away from her corner.
Its doors and drawers were painted a clean lead-color, and there were
places round the knobs and buttons where the touch of hands had worn
deep into the wood. Every braided rug was straight on the floor. The
square clock on its shelf between the front windows looked as if it had
just had its face washed and been wound up for a whole year to come.
If Mrs. Dallett turned her head she could look into the bedroom, where
her plump feather bed was covered with its dark blue homespun winter
qui