any one in the neighborhood could have told her many days before, that her grandmother was going to die.  Mrs. Meeker stared after her with a grieved sense of the abrupt ending of the coveted interview, then she recovered her self-possession, and, picking up the forsaken pail, stepped lightly over the ruts and frozen puddles, following Nan eagerly in the hope of witnessing more of such extraordinary behavior, and with the design of offering her services as watcher or nurse in these last hours.  At any rate the pail and the milk, which had not been spilt, could not be left in the road.

So the first chapter of the child’s life was ended in the early winter weather.  There was a new unsheltered grave on the slope above the river, the farm-house door was shut and locked, and the light was out in the kitchen window.  It had been a landmark to those who were used to driving along the road by night, and there were sincere mourners for the kindly woman who had kept a simple faith and uprightness all through her long life of trouble and disappointment.  Nan and the cat had gone to live in the village, and both, being young, had taken the change with serenity; though at first a piteous sorrow had been waked in the child’s heart, a keen and dreadful fear of the future.  The past seemed so secure and pleasant, as she looked back, and now she was in the power of a fateful future which had begun with something like a whirlwind that had swept over her, leaving nothing unchanged.  It seemed to her that this was to be incessant, and that being grown up was to be at the mercy of sorrow and uncertainty.  She was pale and quiet during her last days in the old home, answering questions and obeying directions mechanically; but usually sitting in the least visited part of the kitchen, watching the neighbors as they examined her grandmother’s possessions, and properly disposed of the contents of the house.  Sometimes a spark flew from her sad and angry eyes, but she made no trouble, and seemed dull and indifferent.  Late in the evening Dr. Leslie carried her home with him through the first heavy snow-storm of the year, and between the excitement of being covered from the fast-falling flakes, and so making a journey in the dark, and of keeping hold of the basket which contained the enraged kitten, the grief at leaving home was not dwelt upon.

When she had been unwound from one of the doctor’s great cloaks, and her eyes had grown used to the bright light in the dining-room, and Marilla had said that supper had been waiting half an hour, and she did not know how she should get along with a black cat, and then bustled about talking much faster than usual, because the sight of the lonely child had made her ready to cry, Nan began to feel comforted.  It seemed a great while ago that she had cried at her grandmother’s funeral.  If this were the future it was certainly very welcome and already very dear, and the time of distress was like a night of bad dreams between two pleasant days.