“Is he—­goin’ to have you now—­Sylvy?”

“I guess so, maybe,” said Sylvia.

“I suppose you’ll go to his house, this is so run down.”

“He’s goin’ to fix this one up.”

“You think you’d rather live here, then?  Well, I s’pose I should.  I s’pose he’s goin’ to buy it.  The town hadn’t ought to ask much.  Sylvy Crane, I can’t get it through my head, nohow.”

“What?” said Sylvia.

“How you run out this nice place so quick.  I thought an’ Sarah thought you’d got enough to last you jest as long as you lived, an’ have some left to leave then.”

Hannah stood back and looked at her sister sharply.

“I’ve always been as savin’ as I knew how,” said Sylvia.

“Well, I dunno but you have.  You got that sofa, that cost considerable.  I shouldn’t have thought you’d got that, if you’d known how things were, Sylvy.”

“I kinder felt as if I needed it.”

“Well, I guess you might have got along without that, anyhow.  Richard’s got one, ain’t he?”

“Yes, he says he has.”

“I thought I remembered his mother’s buyin’ one just before his father died.  Well, you’ll have his sofa, then; if I remember right, it’s a better one than yours that you give Rose.  Now, Sylvy Crane, you jest put on your hood an’ shawl, an’ come home with me, an’ have some dinner.  Have you got anything in the house to eat?”

“I’ve got a few things,” replied Sylvia, evasively.

“What?”

“Some potatoes an’ apples.”

“Potatoes an’ apples!” Hannah began to sob again.  “To think of your comin’ to this,” she wailed.  “My own sister not havin’ anything in the house to eat, an’ settin’ out for the poor-house, an’ everybody in town knowin’ it.”

“Don’t feel bad about it, Hannah; it’s all over now,” said Sylvia.

“Don’t feel bad about it!  I guess you’d feel bad about it if you was in my place,” returned Hannah.  “I s’pose you think now you’ve got Richard Alger that there’s nothin’ else makes any odds.  I guess I’ve got some feelin’s.  Get your hood and shawl, now do; dinner was all ready when I come away.”

“I guess I’d better not, Hannah,” said Sylvia.  It seemed to her that she never would want anything to eat again.  She wanted to be alone in her old house, and hug her happiness to her heart, whose starvation had caused her more agony than any other.  Now that was appeased she cared for nothing else.

“You come right along,” said Hannah.  “I’ve got a nice roast spare-rib an’ turnip an’ squash, an’ you’re goin’ to come an’ have some of it.”

When Hannah and Sylvia got out on the main road, they heard Sarah Barnard’s voice calling them.  She was hurrying down the hill.  Cephas had just come home with the news.  Jonathan Leavitt had spread it over the village from the nucleus of the store where he had stopped on his way home.

Sarah Barnard sat down on the snowy stone-wall among the last year’s blackberry vines, and cried as if her heart would break.  Finally Hannah, after joining with her awhile, turned to and comforted her.