They walked before her and met her like doppelgaengers, wearing the self-same old joy of her own face, but she looked at them unswervingly.  It is harder to look at the likeness of one’s joy than at one’s old sorrow, for the one was dearer.  If Charlotte’s task whereby she earned her few shillings had been the consoling and strengthening of poor forsaken, jilted girls, instead of the arraying of brides, it would have been a happier and an easier one.

But she sat sewing fine, even stitches by the light of the evening candle, hearing the soft murmur of voices from the best rooms, where the fond couples sat, smiling like a soldier over her work.  She pinned on bridal veils and flowers, and nobody knew that her own face instead of the bride’s seemed to smile mockingly at her through the veil.

She was much happier, although she would have sternly denied it to herself, when she was watching with the sick and putting her wonderful needle-work into shrouds, for it was in request for that also.

Except for an increase in staidness and dignity, and a certain decorous change in her garments, Charlotte Barnard did not seem to grow old at all.  Her girlish bloom never faded under her sober bonnet, although ten years had gone by since her own marriage had been broken off.

Barney used to watch furtively Charlotte going past.  He knew quite well when she was helping such and such a girl get ready to be married.  He saw her going home, a swift shadowy figure, after dark, with her few poor shillings in her pocket.  That she should go out to work filled him with a fierce resentment.  With a childish and masculine disregard for all except bare actualities, he could not see why she need to, why she could not let him help her.  He knew that Cephas Barnard’s income was very meagre, that Charlotte needed her little earnings for the barest necessaries; but why could she not let him give them to her?

Barney was laying up money.  He had made his will, whereby he left everything to Charlotte, and to her children after her if she married.  He worked very hard.  In summer he tilled his great farm, in winter he cut wood.

The winter of the tenth year after his quarrel with Charlotte was a very severe one—­full of snow-storms and fierce winds, and bitterly cold.  All winter long the swamps were frozen up, and men could get into them to cut wood.  Barney went day after day and cut the wood in a great swamp a mile behind his house.  He stood from morning until night hewing down the trees, which had gotten their lusty growth from the graves of their own kind.  Their roots were sunken deep among and twined about the very bones of their fathers which helped make up the rich frozen soil of the great swamp.  The crusty snow was three feet deep; the tall blackberry vines were hooped with snow, set fast at either end like snares:  it was hard work making one’s way through them.  The snow was over the heads of those dried weeds which did not blow away in the autumn, but stayed on their stalks with that persistency of life that outlives death; but all the sturdy bushes, which were almost trees, the swamp-pinks and the wild-roses, waxed gigantic, lost their own outlines, and stretched out farther under their loads of snow.