There was a silence as to further speech in the shed chamber; and even the calves were quiet in the barnyard.  The men had all gone away to the field where corn-planting was going on.  The beans clicked steadily into the wooden measure at the pickers’ feet.  Betsey Lane began to sing a hymn, and the others joined in as best they might, like autumnal crickets; their voices were sharp and cracked, with now and then a few low notes of plaintive tone.  Betsey herself could sing pretty well, but the others could only make a kind of accompaniment.  Their voices ceased altogether at the higher notes.

“Oh my!  I wish I had the means to go to the Centennial,” mourned Betsey Lane, stopping so suddenly that the others had to go on croaking and shrilling without her for a moment before they could stop.  “It seems to me as if I can’t die happy ’less I do,” she added; “I ain’t never seen nothin’ of the world, an’ here I be.”

“What if you was as old as I be?” suggested Mrs. Dow pompously.  “You’ve got time enough yet, Betsey; don’t you go an’ despair.  I knowed of a woman that went clean round the world four times when she was past eighty, an’ enjoyed herself real well.  Her folks followed the sea; she had three sons an’ a daughter married,—­all shipmasters, and she’d been with her own husband when they was young.  She was left a widder early, and fetched up her family herself,—­a real stirrin’, smart woman.  After they’d got married off, an’ settled, an’ was doing well, she come to be lonesome; and first she tried to stick it out alone, but she wa’n’t one that could; an’ she got a notion she hadn’t nothin’ before her but her last sickness, and she wa’n’t a person that enjoyed havin’ other folks do for her.  So one on her boys—­I guess ’twas the oldest—­said he was going to take her to sea; there was ample room, an’ he was sailin’ a good time o’ year for the Cape o’ Good Hope an’ way up to some o’ them tea-ports in the Chiny Seas.  She was all high to go, but it made a sight o’ talk at her age; an’ the minister made it a subject o’ prayer the last Sunday, and all the folks took a last leave; but she said to some she’d fetch ’em home something real pritty, and so did.  An’ then they come home t’other way, round the Horn, an’ she done so well, an’ was such a sight o’ company, the other child’n was jealous, an’ she promised she’d go a v’y’ge long o’ each on ’em.  She was as sprightly a person as ever I see; an’ could speak well o’ what she’d seen.”

“Did she die to sea?” asked Peggy, with interest.

“No, she died to home between v’y’ges, or she’d gone to sea again.  I was to her funeral.  She liked her son George’s ship the best; ’twas the one she was going on to Callao.  They said the men aboard all called her ‘gran’ma’am,’ an’ she kep’ ’em mended up, an’ would go below and tend to ’em if they was sick.  She might ‘a’ been alive an’ enjoyin’ of herself a good many years but for the kick of a cow; ’twas a new cow out of a drove, a dreadful unruly beast.”