he poor-house with her; she had
them to pack, and she also had some cleaning to do.

She had a vague idea that the town, which seemed to loom over her
like some dreadful shadowy giant of a child's story, would sell the
house, and it must be left in neat order for the inspection of seller
and buyer. "I ain't goin' to have the town lookin' over the house an'
sayin' it ain't kept decent," she said. So she worked hard all night,
and her candle lit up first one window, then another, moving all over
the house like a will-o'-the-wisp.

The man who had charge of the poor-house came for her the next
morning at ten o'clock. Sylvia was all ready. At quarter past ten he
drove out of the old road where the Crane house stood and down the
village street. The man's name was Jonathan Leavitt. He was quite old
but hearty, with a stubbly fringe of white beard around a ruddy face.
He had come on a wood-sled for the greater convenience of bringing
Sylvia's goods. There were a feather-bed, bolster, and pillows, tied
up in an old homespun blanket, on the rear of the sled; there was
also a red chest, and a great bundle of bedclothing. Sylvia sat in
her best rocking-chair just behind Jonathan Leavitt, who drove
standing.

"It's a pleasant day for this time of year," he observed to Sylvia
when they started. Sylvia nodded assent.

Jonathan Leavitt had had a fear lest Sylvia might make a disturbance
about going. Many a time had it taken hours for him to induce a poor
woman to leave her own door-stone; and when at length they had set
forth, it was to an accompaniment of shrill, piteous lamentations, so
strained and persistent that they seemed scarcely human, and more
like the cries of a scared cat being hauled away from her home.
Everybody on the road had turned to look after the sled, and Jonathan
Leavitt had driven on, looking straight ahead, his face screwed hard,
lashing now and then his old horse, with a gruff shout. Now he felt
relieved and grateful to Sylvia for going so quietly. He was disposed
to be very friendly to her.

"You'd better keep your rockin'-chair kind of stiddy," he said, when
they turned the corner into the new road, and the chair oscillated
like an uneasy berth at sea.

Sylvia sat up straight in the chair. She had on her best bonnet and
shawl, and her worked lace veil over her face. Her poor blue eyes
stared out between the black silk leaves and roses. If she had been a
dead woman and riding to her grave, and it had