“Have some hot tea,” she insisted, in a matter of fact tone, and Sarah Ellen’s face, which had been lighted by a sudden eager hopefulness, grew dull and narrow again.

“Plenty, plenty, Mis’ Crane,” she said sadly, “’tis beautiful tea,—­you always have good tea;” but she could not turn her thoughts from her own uncertain future.  “None of our folks has ever lived to be a burden,” she said presently, in a pathetic tone, putting down her cup.  “My mother was thought to be doing well until four o’clock an’ was dead at ten.  My Aunt Nancy came to our house well at twelve o’clock an’ died that afternoon; my father was sick but ten days.  There was dear sister Betsy, she did go in consumption, but ’twa’n’t an expensive sickness.”

“I’ve thought sometimes about you, how you’d get past rovin’ from house to house one o’ these days.  I guess your friends will stand by you.”  Mrs. Crane spoke with unwonted sympathy, and Sarah Ellen’s heart leaped with joy.

“You’re real kind,” she said simply.  “There’s nobody I set so much by.  But I shall miss Sister Barsett, when all’s said an’ done.  She’s asked me many a time to stop with her when I wasn’t doin’ nothin’.  We all have our failin’s, but she was a friendly creatur’.  I sha’n’t want to see her laid away.”

“Yes, I was thinkin’ a few minutes ago that I shouldn’t want to look out an’ see the funeral go by.  She’s one o’ the old neighbors.  I s’pose I shall have to look, or I shouldn’t feel right afterward,” said Mrs. Crane mournfully.  “If I hadn’t got so kind of housebound,” she added with touching frankness, “I’d just as soon go over with you an’ offer to watch this night.”

“’T would astonish Sister Barsett so I don’t know but she’d return.”  Sarah Ellen’s eyes danced with amusement; she could not resist her own joke, and Mercy Crane herself had to smile.

“Now I must be goin’, or ’twill be dark,” said the guest, rising and sighing after she had eaten her last crumb of gingerbread.  “Yes, thank ye, you’re real good, I will come back if I find I ain’t wanted.  Look what a pretty sky there is!” and the two friends went to the side door and stood together in a moment of affectionate silence, looking out toward the sunset across the wide fields.  The country was still with that deep rural stillness which seems to mean the absence of humanity.  Only the thrushes were singing far away in the walnut woods beyond the orchard, and some crows were flying over and cawed once loudly, as if they were speaking to the women at the door.

Just as the friends were parting, after most grateful acknowledgments from Sarah Ellen Dow, some one came driving along the road in a hurry and stopped.

“Who’s that with you, Mis’ Crane?” called one of their near neighbors.

“It’s Sarah Ellen Dow,” answered Mrs. Crane.  “What’s the matter?”

“I thought so, but I couldn’t rightly see.  Come, they are in a peck o’ trouble up to Sister Barsett’s, wonderin’ where you be,” grumbled the man.  “They can’t do nothin’ with her; she’s drove off everybody an’ keeps a-screechin’ for you.  Come, step along, Sarah Ellen, do!”