“No, she ain’t, nor her silk gown neither.  I said all I darsed to.  I thought mebbe she or Sarah would offer; they both of ’em know how hard it is to get anything out of Silas; but they didn’t, an’ I wa’n’t goin’ to ask, nohow.  I shall get a new silk an’ a mantilla for Rose, an’ not be beholden to nobody, if I have to sell the spoons I had when I was married.”

“I don’t s’pose they have much to do with,” said Sylvia.  She began to gradually edge past her sister.

“Of course they haven’t; I know that jest as well as you do.  But if Charlotte ain’t goin’ to get married she don’t want any weddin’-gown an’ mantilla, an’ she won’t ever get married.  She let Thomas Payne slip, an’ there ain’t nobody else I can think of for her.  If she ain’t goin’ to want weddin’-clothes, I don’t see why she an’ her mother would be any poorer for givin’ hers away.  ’Twouldn’t cost ’em any more than to let ’em lay in the chest.  Well, I’ve got to go home; it’s supper-time.  Where did you say you’d been, Sylvy?”

Sylvia was well past her sister; she pretended not to hear.  “You ain’t been over for quite a spell,” she called back, faintly.

“I know I ain’t,” returned Hannah.  “I’ve been tellin’ Rose we’d come over to tea some afternoon before she was married.”

“Do,” said Sylvia, but the cordiality in her voice seemed to overweigh it.

“Well, mebbe we’ll come over to-morrow,” said Hannah.  “We’ve got some pillow-slips to trim, an’ we can bring them.  You’d better ask Sarah an’ Charlotte, if she can stay away from Rebecca Thayer’s long enough.”

“Yes, I will,” said Sylvia, feebly, over her shoulder.

“We’ll come early,” said Hannah.  Then the sisters sped apart through the early winter darkness.  Poor Sylvia fairly groaned out loud when her sister was out of hearing and she had turned the corner of the old road.

“What shall I do? what shall I do?” she muttered.

Her sisters to tea meant hot biscuits and plum sauce and pie and pound-cake and tea.  Sylvia had yet a little damson sauce at the bottom of a jar, although she had not preserved last year, for lack of sugar; but hot biscuits and pie, the pound-cake and tea would have to be provided.

She felt again of the little money-store in her pocket; that was all that stood between her and the poor-house; every penny was a barrier and had its carefully calculated value.  This outlay would reduce terribly her little period of respite and independence; yet she hesitated as little as Fouquet planning the splendid entertainment, which would ruin him, for Louis XIII.

Her sisters and nieces must come to tea; and all the food, which was the village fashion and as absolute in its way as court etiquette, must be provided.

“They’ll suspect if I don’t,” said Sylvia Crane.

She rolled away the stone from the door and entered her solitary house.  She lighted her candle and prepared for bed.  She did not get any supper.  She said to herself with a sudden fierceness, which came over her at times—­a mild impulse of rebellion which indicated perhaps some strain from far-off, untempered ancestors, which had survived New England generations—­that she did not care if she never ate supper again.