he says she won't be married," she whispered.

"You let me see her," said Barney, and he took a stride forward, but
Mrs. Sloane held the door against him.

"You can't," she whispered again. "I'll talk to her some more. I can
talk her over, if anybody can."

Barney fell back, and again the door was shut and the voices were
heard. This time Rebecca's arose into a wail, and they heard her cry
out, "I won't, I won't! Go away, and stop talking to me! I won't! Go
away!"

William turned around, and hid his face against the corner of the
mantel-shelf. Barney went up and clapped him roughly on the shoulder.
"Can't you go in there and make her listen to reason?" he said.

But just then Mrs. Sloane opened the door again. "You can walk right
in now," she announced, smiling, her thin mouth sending the lines of
her whole face into smirking upward curves.

The whole company edged forward solemnly. Mrs. Sloane was following,
but Barney stood in her way. "I guess you'd better not come in," he
said, abruptly.

Mrs. Sloane's face flushed a burning red. "I guess," she began, in a
loud voice, but Barney shut the door in her face. She ran noisily,
stamping her feet like an angry child, to the fireplace, caught up a
heavy kettle, and threw it down on the hearth. The hens flew up with
a great clamor and whir of wings; Mrs. Sloane's shrill, mocking laugh
arose above it. She began talking in a high-pitched voice, flinging
out vituperations which would seem to patter against the closed door
like bullets. Suddenly she stopped, as if her ire had failed her, and
listened intently to a low murmur from the other room. She nodded her
head when it ceased.

The door opened soon, and all except Rebecca came out. They stood
consulting together in low voices, and Mrs. Sloane listened. They
were deciding where to take Rebecca.

All at once Mrs. Sloane spoke. Her voice was still high-pitched with
anger.

"If you want to know where to take her to, I can tell you," said she.
"I'd keep her here an' welcome, but I s'pose you think I ain't good
enough, you're all such mighty particular folks, an' ain't never had
no disgrace in your own families. William Berry can't take her to his
home to-night, for his mother wouldn't leave a whole skin on either
of 'em. Her own mother has turned her out, an' Barney can't take her
in. She's got to go somewhere where there's a woman; she's terrible
upset. There ain't no other way but for you an' Mis' Barnes to take
h