Sylvia had hoped Margaret would not come in while she sat with the squire.  She was afraid of her eyes, which flashed keen like a man’s under shaggy brows.  She did not want her to see the squire counting out the money from his leather purse, although she knew that Margaret would keep her own counsel.

She had been glad enough to escape and not see her appear behind the bulk of the squire in the doorway.  Squire Payne was full of laborious courtesy, and always himself aided Sylvia to the door when she came for money, and that always alarmed her.  She would drop a meek courtesy on trembling knees and hurry away.

Sylvia had almost reached the old road leading to her own house, when she saw a figure advancing towards her through the dusk.  She saw it was a woman by the wide swing of the skirts, and trembled.  She felt a presentiment as to who it was.  She held her head down and well to one side, she bent over and tried to hurry past, but the figure stopped.

“Is that you, Sylvy Crane?” said her sister, Hannah Berry.

Sylvia did not stop.  “Yes, it’s me,” she stammered.  “Good-evenin’, Hannah.”

She tried to pass, but Hannah stood in her way.  “What you hurryin’ so for?” she asked, sharply; “where you been?”

“Where you been?” returned Sylvia, trembling.

“Up to Sarah’s.  Charlotte, she’s gone down to Rebecca’s.  She’s terrible thick with Rebecca.  Well, I’ve been to see Rebecca; an’ Rose, she’s been, an’ I ain’t nothin’ to say.  William has got her for a wife, an’ we’ve got to hold up our heads before folks; an’ when it comes right down to it, there’s a good many folks can’t say much.  If Charlotte Barnard wants to be thick with Rebecca, she can.  Her mother won’t say nothin’.  She always was as easy as old Tilly; an’ as for Cephas, he’s either eatin’ grass, or he ain’t eatin’ grass, an’ that’s all he cares about, unless he gets stirred up about politics, the way he did with Barney Thayer.  I dunno but Charlotte thinks she’ll get him back again goin’ to see Rebecca.  I miss my guess but what she sees him there sometimes.  I wouldn’t have a daughter of mine chasin’ a fellar that had give her the mitten; but Charlotte ain’t got no pride, nor her mother, neither.  Where did you say you’d been, trapesin’ through the snow?”

“Has Rose got her things most done?” asked Sylvia, desperately.  Distress was awakening duplicity in her simple, straightforward heart.  All Hannah Berry’s thought slid, as it were, in well-greased grooves; only give one a starting push and it went on indefinitely and left all others behind, and her sister Sylvia knew it.

“Well, she’s got ’em pretty near done,” replied Hannah Berry.  “Her underclothes are all done, an’ the quilts; the weddin’-dress ain’t bought yet, an’ she’s got to have a mantilla.  Do you know Charlotte ain’t never wore that handsome mantilla she had when she was expectin’ to marry Barney?”

“Ain’t she?”