“I am Anna Moore.”

“Know as much now as I ever did,” snapped the interlocutor.

“I have come to work for Mrs. Bartlett, to help her about the house.”

“Land sakes.  Bartlett’s keeping help!  How stylish they’re getting.”

“Yes, Marthy, we are progressing,” said Kate, coming out of the house.  “Anna, this is our friend, Miss Marthy Perkins.”

The village gossip’s confusion was but momentary.  “Do you know, Kate, I just came over a-purpose to see if you’d come.  What kind of clothes are they wearing in Boston?  Are shirtwaists going to have tucked backs or plain?  I am going to make over my gray alpaca, and I wouldn’t put the scissors into it till I seen you.”

“Come upstairs, Marthy, and I’ll show you my new shirtwaists.”

“Land sakes,” said the spinster, bridling.  “I would be delighted, but you know how I can’t move without that Seth Holcomb a-taggin’ after me; it’s just awful the way I am persecuted.  I do wish I’d get old and then there’ll be an end of it.”  She held out a pair of mittens, vintage of 1812, to Kate, appealingly.

Seth Holcomb stumped in sight as she concluded; he had been Martha’s faithful admirer these twenty years, but she would never reward him; her hopes of younger and less rheumatic game seemed to spring eternal.

During the few days that Anna had made one of the Squire’s family she went about with deep thankfulness in her heart; she had been given the chance to work, to earn her bread by these good people.  Who could tell—­as time went on perhaps they would grow fond of her, learn to regard her as one of themselves—­it was so much better than being so utterly alone.

Her energy never flagged, she did her share of the work with the light hand of experience that delighted the old housekeeper.  It was so good to feel a roof over her head, and to feel that she was earning her right to it.

Supper had been cooked, the table laid and everything was in readiness for the family meal, but the old clock wanted five minutes of the hour; the girl came out into the glowing sunset to draw a pail of water from the old well, but paused to enjoy the scene.  Purple, gold and crimson was the mantle of the departing day; and all her crushed and hopeless youth rose, cheered by its glory.

“Thank God,” she murmured fervently, “at last I have found a refuge.  I am beginning life again.  The shadow of the old one will rest on me forever, but time and work, the cure for every grief, will cure me.”

Her eyes had been turned toward the west, where the day was going out in such a riot of splendor, and she had not noticed the man who entered the gate and was making his way toward her, flicking his boots with his riding crop as he walked.

She turned suddenly at the sound of steps on the gravel; in the gathering darkness neither could see nor recognize the other till they were face to face.