“Nonsense, Nora!  I know there is something that keeps you awake; what is it now?”

“Really—­and indeed it is nothing serious; only I am thinking over what we have seen to-day!”

“Oh! but try to go to sleep now, my dear,” said Hannah, as if satisfied.

“I can’t; but, Hannah, I say, are you and Reuben Gray engaged?”

“Yes, dear.”

“How long have you been engaged?”

“For more than twelve years, dear.”

“My—­good—­gracious—­me—­alive!  Twelve years!  Why on earth don’t you get married, Hannah?”

“He cannot afford it, dear; it takes everything he can rake and scrape to keep his mother and his little brothers and sisters, and even with all that they often want.”

“Well, then, why don’t he let you off of your promise?”

“Nora!—­what! why we would no sooner think of breaking with each other than if we had been married, instead of being engaged all these twelve years!”

“Well, then, when do you expect to be married?”

“I do not know, dear; when his sisters and brothers are all grown up and off his hands, I suppose.”

“And that won’t be for the next ten years—­even if then!  Hannah, you will be an elderly woman, and he an old man, before that!”

“Yes, dear, I know that; but we must be patient; for everyone in this world has something to bear, and we must accept our share.  And even if it should be in our old age that Reuben and myself come together, what of that?  We shall have all eternity before us to live together; for, Nora, dear, I look upon myself as his promised wife for time and eternity.  Therefore, you see there is no such thing possible as for me to break with Reuben.  We belong to each other forever, and the Lord himself knows it.  And now, dear, be quiet and try to sleep; for we must rise early to-morrow to make up by industry for the time lost to-day; so, once more, good-night, dear.”

Nora responded to this good-night, and turned her head to the wall—­not to sleep, but to muse on those fiery, dark-brown eyes that had looked such mysterious meanings into hers, and that thrilling deep-toned voice that had breathed such sweet praise in her ears.  And so musing, Nora fell asleep, and her reverie passed into dreams.

Early the next morning the sisters were up.  The weather had changed with the usual abruptness of our capricious climate.  The day before had been like June.  This day was like January.  A dark-gray sky overhead, with black clouds driven by an easterly wind scudding across it, and threatening a rain storm.

The sisters hurried through their morning work, got their frugal breakfast over, put their room in order, and sat down to their daily occupation—­Hannah before her loom, Nora beside her spinning-wheel.  The clatter of the loom, the whir of the wheel, admitted of no conversation between the workers; so Hannah worked, as usual, in perfect silence, and Nora, who ever before sung to the sound of her humming wheel, now mused instead.  The wind rose in occasional gusts, shaking the little hut in its exposed position on the hill.