A cheerful clatter of dishes was heard at once upon Mrs. Crane’s disappearance.  “I hope she’s goin’ to make one o’ her nice short-cakes, but I don’t know’s she’ll think it quite worth while,” thought the guest humbly.  She desired to go out into the kitchen, but it was proper behavior to wait until she should be called.  Mercy Crane was not a person with whom one could venture to take liberties.  Presently Sarah Ellen began to feel better.  She did not often find such a quiet place, or the quarter of an hour of idleness in which to enjoy it, and was glad to make the most of this opportunity.  Just now she felt tired and lonely.  She was a busy, unselfish, eager-minded creature by nature, but now, while grief was sometimes uppermost in her mind and sometimes a sense of wrong, every moment found her more peaceful, and the great excitement little by little faded away.

“What a person poor Sister Barsett was to dread growing old so she couldn’t get about.  I’m sure I shall miss her as much as anybody,” said Mrs. Crane, suddenly opening the kitchen door, and letting in an unmistakable and delicious odor of short-cake that revived still more the drooping spirits of her guest.  “An’ a good deal of knowledge has died with her,” she added, coming into the room and seeming to make it lighter.

“There, she knew a good deal, but she didn’t know all, especially o’ doctorin’,” insisted Sarah Ellen from the rocking-chair, with an unexpected little laugh.  “She used to lay down the law to me as if I had neither sense nor experience, but when it came to her bad spells she’d always send for me.  It takes everybody to know everything, but Sister Barsett was of an opinion that her information was sufficient for the town.  She was tellin’ me the day I went there how she disliked to have old Mis’ Doubleday come an’ visit with her, an’ remarked that she called Mis’ Doubleday very officious.  ’Went right down on her knees an’ prayed,’ says she.  ’Anybody would have thought I was a heathen!’ But I kind of pacified her feelin’s, an’ told her I supposed the old lady meant well.”

“Did she give away any of her things?—­Mis’ Barsett, I mean,” inquired Mrs. Crane.

“Not in my hearin’,” replied Sarah Ellen Dow.  “Except one day, the first of the week, she told her oldest sister, Mis’ Deckett,—­’twas that first day she rode over—­that she might have her green quilted petticoat; you see it was a rainy day, an’ Mis’ Deckett had complained o’ feelin’ thin.  She went right up an’ got it, and put it on an’ wore it off, an’ I’m sure I thought no more about it, until I heard Sister Barsett groanin’ dreadful in the night.  I got right up to see what the matter was, an’ what do you think but she was wantin’ that petticoat back, and not thinking any too well o’ Nancy Deckett for takin’ it when ’twas offered.  ‘Nancy never showed no sense o’ propriety,’ says Sister Barsett; I just wish you’d heard her go on!