thrown out at their front door.  I thought it might be well to hunt for mussels myself, and crack them in search of pearls, but it was too serene and beautiful a day.  I was not willing to disturb the comfort of even a shell-fish.  It was one of the days when one does not think of being tired:  the scent of the dry everlasting flowers, and the freshness of the wind, and the cawing of the crows, all come to me as I think of it, and I remember that I went a long way before I began to think of going home again.  I knew I could not be far from a cross-road, and when I climbed a low hill I saw a house which I was glad to make the end of my walk—­for a time, at any rate.  It was some time since I had seen the old woman who lived there, and I liked her dearly, and was sure of a welcome.  I went down through the pasture lane, and just then I saw my father drive away up the road, just too far for me to make him hear when I called.  That seemed too bad at first, until I remembered that he would come back again over the same road after a while, and in the mean time I could make my call.  The house was low and long and unpainted, with a great many frost-bitten flowers about it.  Some hollyhocks were bowed down despairingly, and the morning-glory vines were more miserable still.  Some of the smaller plants had been covered to keep them from freezing, and were braving out a few more days, but no shelter would avail them much longer.  And already nobody minded whether the gate was shut or not, and part of the great flock of hens were marching proudly about among the wilted posies, which they had stretched their necks wistfully through the fence for all summer.  I heard the noise of spinning in the house, and my dog scurried off after the cat as I went in the door.  I saw Miss Polly Marsh and her sister, Mrs. Snow, stepping back and forward together spinning yarn at a pair of big wheels.  The wheels made such a noise with their whir and creak, and my friends were talking so fast as they twisted and turned the yarn, that they did not hear my footstep, and I stood in the doorway watching them, it was such a quaint and pretty sight.  They went together like a pair of horses, and kept step with each other to and fro.  They were about the same size, and were cheerful old bodies, looking a good deal alike, with their checked handkerchiefs over their smooth gray hair, their dark gowns made short in the skirts, and their broad little feet in gray stockings and low leather shoes without heels.  They stood straight, and though they were quick at their work they moved stiffly; they were talking busily about some one.

“I could tell by the way the doctor looked that he didn’t think there was much of anything the matter with her,” said Miss Polly Marsh. “’You needn’t tell me,’ says I, the other day, when I see him at Miss Martin’s.  ‘She’d be up and about this minute if she only had a mite o’ resolution;’ and says he, ‘Aunt Polly, you’re as near right as usual;’” and the old lady stopped to laugh a little.  “I