“Breakfast is ready,” she announced, finally; “if you don’t set right up an’ eat it, it will be gettin’ cold.  I wouldn’t give a cent for cold Injun cake.”

Charlotte arose promptly and brought a chair to the table, which Sylvia always set punctiliously in the centre of the kitchen as if for a large family.

“Don’t scrape your chair on the floor that way; it wears ’em all out,” cried Sylvia, sharply.

Charlotte stared at her again, but she said nothing; she sat down and began to eat absently.  Sylvia watched her angrily between her own mouthfuls, which she swallowed down defiantly like medicine.

“It ain’t much use cookin’ things if folks don’t eat ’em,” said she.

“I am eating,” returned Charlotte.

“Eatin’?  Swallowin’ down Injun cake as if it was sawdust!  I don’t call that eatin’.  You don’t act as if you tasted a mite of it!”

“Aunt Sylvy, what has got into you?” said Charlotte.

“Got into me?  I should think you’d talk about anything gettin’ into me, when you set there like a stick.  I guess you ’ain’t got all there is to bear.”

“I never thought I had,” said Charlotte.

“Well, I guess you ’ain’t.”

They went on swallowing their food silently; the great clock ticked slowly, and the spring birds called outside; but they heard neither.  The shadows of the young elm leaves played over the floor and the white table-cloth.  It was much warmer that morning, and the shadows were softer.

Before they had finished breakfast, Charlotte’s mother came, advancing ponderously, with soft thuds, across the yard to the side door.  She opened it and peered in.

“Here you be,” said she, scanning both their faces with anxious and deprecating inquiry.

“Can’t you come in, an’ not stand there holdin’ the door open?” inquired Sylvia.  “I feel the wind on my back, and I’ve got a bad pain enough in it now.”

Mrs. Barnard stepped in, and shut the door quickly, in an alarmed way.

“Ain’t you feelin’ well this mornin’, Sylvy?” said she.

“Oh yes, I’m feelin’ well enough.  It ain’t any matter how I feel, but it’s a good deal how some other folks do.”

Sarah Barnard sank into the rocking-chair, and sat there looking at them hesitatingly, as if she did not dare to open the conversation.

Suddenly Sylvia arose and went out of the kitchen with a rush, carrying a plate of Indian cake to feed the hens.  “I can’t set here all day; I’ve got to do something,” she announced as she went.

When the door had closed after her, Mrs. Barnard turned to Charlotte.

“What’s the matter with her?” she asked, nodding towards the door.

“I don’t know.”

“She ain’t sick, is she?  I never see her act so.  Sylvy’s generally just like a lamb.  You don’t s’pose she’s goin’ to have a fever, do you?”

“I don’t know.”

Suddenly Charlotte, who was still sitting at the table, put up her two hands with a despairing gesture, and bent her head forward upon them.