at eatin'. You don't act as if you tasted a mite of it!"

"Aunt Sylvy, what has got into you?" said Charlotte.

"Got into me? I should think you'd talk about anything gettin' into
me, when you set there like a stick. I guess you 'ain't got all there
is to bear."

"I never thought I had," said Charlotte.

"Well, I guess you 'ain't."

They went on swallowing their food silently; the great clock ticked
slowly, and the spring birds called outside; but they heard neither.
The shadows of the young elm leaves played over the floor and the
white table-cloth. It was much warmer that morning, and the shadows
were softer.

Before they had finished breakfast, Charlotte's mother came,
advancing ponderously, with soft thuds, across the yard to the side
door. She opened it and peered in.

"Here you be," said she, scanning both their faces with anxious and
deprecating inquiry.

"Can't you come in, an' not stand there holdin' the door open?"
inquired Sylvia. "I feel the wind on my back, and I've got a bad pain
enough in it now."

Mrs. Barnard stepped in, and shut the door quickly, in an alarmed
way.

"Ain't you feelin' well this mornin', Sylvy?" said she.

"Oh yes, I'm feelin' well enough. It ain't any matter how I feel, but
it's a good deal how some other folks do."

Sarah Barnard sank into the rocking-chair, and sat there looking at
them hesitatingly, as if she did not dare to open the conversation.

Suddenly Sylvia arose and went out of the kitchen with a rush,
carrying a plate of Indian cake to feed the hens. "I can't set here
all day; I've got to do something," she announced as she went.

When the door had closed after her, Mrs. Barnard turned to Charlotte.

"What's the matter with her?" she asked, nodding towards the door.

"I don't know."

"She ain't sick, is she? I never see her act so. Sylvy's generally
just like a lamb. You don't s'pose she's goin' to have a fever, do
you?"

"I don't know."

Suddenly Charlotte, who was still sitting at the table, put up her
two hands with a despairing gesture, and bent her head forward upon
them.

"Now don't, you poor child," said her mother, her eyes growing
suddenly red. "Didn't he even turn round when you called him back
last night?"

Charlotte shook her bowed head dumbly.

"Don't you s'pose he'll ever come again?"

Charlotte shook her head.

"Mebbe he will. I know he's terrible set."

"Who's set?" demanded Sylvia, coming in with her empty plate.

"Oh, I