“If I were you,” Rose cried out, “I’d feel like tearing that bonnet to pieces!”

Charlotte replaced it in the bandbox, and began unfastening her dress.

“I don’t see how you can bear the sight of them.  I don’t believe I could bear them in the house!” Rose cried out again.  “I would put that dress in the rag-bag if it was mine!” Her cheeks burned and her eyes were quite fierce upon the dress as Charlotte slipped it off and it fell to the floor in a rustling heap around her.

“I don’t see any sense in losing everything you have ever had because you haven’t got anything now,” Charlotte returned, in a stern voice.  She laid the shining silk gown carefully on the bed, and put on her cotton one again.  Her face was quite steady.

Rose watched her with the same sharp question in her eyes.  “You know you and Barney will make it up,” she said, at length.

“No, I don’t,” returned Charlotte.  “Suppose we go down-stairs now.  I’ve got some work I ought to do.”

Charlotte pulled down the green paper shades of the windows, and went out of the room.  Rose followed.  Charlotte turned to go down-stairs, but Rose caught her arm.

“Wait a minute,” said she.  “Look here, Charlotte.”

“What is it?”

“Charlotte,” said Rose again; then she stopped.

Charlotte turned and looked at her.  Rose’s eyes met hers, and her face had a noble expression.

“You write a note to him, and I’ll carry it,” said Rose.  “I’ll go down in the field where he is, on my way home.”

Tears sprang into Charlotte’s eyes.  “You’re real good, Rose,” she said; “but I can’t.”

“Hadn’t you better?”

“No; I can’t.  Don’t let’s talk any more about it.”

Charlotte pushed past Rose’s detaining hand, and the girls went down-stairs.  Mrs. Barnard looked around dejectedly at them as they entered the kitchen.  Her eyes were red, and her mouth drooping; she was clearing the debris of the pies from the table; there was a smell of baking, but Cephas had gone out.  She tried to smile at Rose.  “Are you goin’ now?” said she.

“Yes; I’ve got to.  I’ve got to sew on my muslin dress.  When are you coming over, Aunt Sarah?  You haven’t been over to our house for an age.”

“I don’t care if I never go anywhere!” cried Sarah Barnard, with sudden desperation.  “I’m discouraged.”  She sank in a chair, and flung her apron over her face.

“Don’t, mother,” said Charlotte.

“I can’t help it,” sobbed her mother.  “You’re young and you’ve got more strength to bear it, but mine’s all gone.  I feel worse about you than if it was myself, an’ there’s so much to put up with besides.  I don’t feel as if I could put up with things much longer, nohow.”

“Uncle Cephas ought to be ashamed of himself!” Rose cried out.

Sarah stood up.  “Well, I don’t s’pose I have so much to put up with as some folks,” she said, catching her breath as if it were her dignity.  “Your Uncle Cephas means well.  It did seem as if them sorrel pies were the last straw, but I hadn’t ought to have minded it.”