She reached Barney’s house, and passed it; then she came to the Thayer house.  Before that lay the garden.  The ranks of pease and beans were in white blossom, and there was a pale shimmer as of a cobweb veil over it.

Charlotte had passed the garden when she heard a voice behind her: 

“Charlotte!”

She stopped, and Barney came up.

“Good-evening,” said he.

“Good-evening,” said Charlotte.

“I saw you going by,” said Barney.  Then he paused again, and Charlotte waited.

“I saw you going by,” he repeated, “and—­I thought I’d like to speak to you.  I wanted to thank you for what you did—­about mother.”

“You’re very welcome,” replied Charlotte.

Barney ground a stone beneath his heel.  “I sha’n’t ever forget it, and—­father won’t, either,” he said.  His voice trembled, and yet there was a certain doggedness in it.

Charlotte stood waiting.  Barney turned slowly away.  “Good-night,” he said.

“Good-night,” returned Charlotte, quickly, and she fairly sprang away from him and down the road.  Her limbs trembled, but she held her head up proudly.  She understood it all perfectly.  Barney had meant to inform her that his behavior towards her on the day his mother died had been due to a momentary weakness; that she was to expect nothing further.  She went on to the store and did her errand, then went home.  As she entered the kitchen her mother came through from the front room.  She had been sitting at a window watching for Charlotte to return; she thought Barney might be with her.

“Well, you’ve got home,” said she, and it sounded like a question.

“Yes,” said Charlotte.  She laid her parcels on the table.  “I guess I’ll go to bed,” she added.

“Why, it’s dreadful early to go to bed, ain’t it?”

“Well, I’m tired; I guess I’ll go.”

The candle-light was dim in the room, but Sarah eyed her daughter sharply.  She thought she looked pale.

“Did you meet anybody?” she asked.

“I don’t know; there wasn’t many folks out.”

“You didn’t see Barney, did you?”

“Yes, I met him.”

Charlotte lighted another candle, and opened the door.

“Look here,” said her mother.

“Well?” replied Charlotte, with a sort of despairing patience.

“What did he say to you?  I want to know.”

“He didn’t say much of anything.  He thanked me for what I did about his mother.”

“Didn’t he say anything about anything else?”

“No, he didn’t.”  Charlotte went out, shielding her candle.

“You don’t mean that he didn’t say anything, after the way he acted that day his mother died?”

“I didn’t expect him to say anything.”

“He’s treated you mean, Charlotte,” her mother cried out, with a half sob.  “He’d ought to be strung up after he acted so, huggin’ an’ kissin’ you right before folk’s face and eyes.”