lock she arose from her chair and went into
the long, narrow dining-room. The pat-pat of her slippered feet aroused
Old Chris from his nodding over the _Farm Herald_. Finding that the hot
air was not coming up strong through the register over which he sat, the
old man slowly pushed his wool-socked feet into felt-lined overshoes and
tramped down into the cellar, picking up the kitchen lamp as he went.
Abbie followed as far as the kitchen. The pungent dry-wood smell that
came up the stairs when Old Chris swung open the door of the wood cellar
made her sniff. She heard the sounds as he loaded the wheelbarrow with
the sticks of quartered hardwood; the noise of the wheel bumping over
the loose boards as he pushed his load into the furnace-room. She went
back into the parlor and stood over the register. Hollow sounds came up
through the pipe as Old Chris leveled the ashes in the fire-box and
threw in the fresh sticks.

When Old Chris came up from the cellar and went out onto the porch to
draw up fresh water for the night, Abbie went back into the kitchen.

"It's snowin' hard out," said Old Chris.

"Yes," Abbie answered.

She led the way back into the dining-room. Old Chris placed the kitchen
lamp on the stand under the fruit picture and waited. For a few moments
they stood in the blast of hot air rising from the register. Then Abbie
took up the larger of the two lamps. Through the bare, high-ceilinged
rooms she went, opening and closing the heavy doors; on through the
cold, empty hall, up the stairs, into the South bedroom. While she was
closing the blinds she heard Old Chris stumble up the back stairs and
into the chamber he had occupied ever since she could remember.

The night after Old Chris had gone, Abbie took the brass dinner-bell
from the pantry shelf and set it on the chair beside her bed. Over the
back of the chair she placed her heavy, rabbit-lined coat; it would be
handy if any one disturbed her. Once or twice when she heard sounds, she
put out her hand and touched the bell; but the sounds did not recur. The
next night she tried sleeping in the down-stairs bedroom. The
blue-and-gray carpet, the blue fixings on the bureau and commode, the
blue bands around the wash-bowl and pitcher--all faded and
old-looking--reminded her of her mother and father, and would not let
her sleep. On the wall in front of her was a picture in a black frame of
a rowboat filled with people. It was called "From Shore to Shore."
Trying