he even stood in the door, watching him
away; and not until the rattle of his wheels had ceased on the frozen
road, did she return to her kitchen and stretch her shawled arms
pathetically upward.

"I thank my heavenly Father!" said Lucy Ann, with the fervency of a
great experience.

She built her fire, and then unpacked her little trunk, and hung up the
things in the bedroom where her mother's presence seemed still to cling.

"I'll sleep here now," she said to herself. "I won't go out of this no
more."

Then all the little homely duties of the hour cried out upon her, like
children long neglected; and, with the luxurious leisure of those who
may prolong a pleasant task, she set her house in order. She laid out a
programme to occupy her days. The attic should be cleaned to-morrow. In
one day? Nay, why not three, to hold Time still, and make him wait her
pleasure? Then there were the chambers, and the living-rooms below. She
felt all the excited joy of youth; she was tasting anticipation at its
best.

"It'll take me a week," said she. "That will be grand." She could hardly
wait even for the morrow's sun; and that night she slept like those of
whom much is to be required, and who must wake in season. Morning came,
and mid-forenoon, and while she stepped about under the roof where dust
had gathered and bitter herbs told tales of summers past, John drove
into the yard. Lucy Ann threw up the attic window and leaned out.

"You put your horse up, an' I'll be through here in a second," she
called. "The barn's open."

John was in a hurry.

"I've got to go over to Sudleigh, to meet the twelve o'clock," said he.
"Harold's comin'. I only wanted to say I'll be over after you the night
before Thanksgivin'. Mary wants you should be sure to be there to
breakfast. You all right? Cephas said you seemed to have a proper good
time with them."

John turned skillfully on the little green and drove away. Lucy Ann
stayed at the window watching him, the breeze lifting her gray curls,
and the sun smiling at her. She withdrew slowly into the attic, and sank
down upon the floor, close by the window. She sat there and thought, and
the wind still struck upon her unheeded. Was she always to be subject to
the tyranny of those who had set up their hearth-stones in a more
enduring form? Was her home not a home merely because there were no men
and children in it? She drew her breath sharply, and confronted certain
problems of the greater world