tangle and broke off a
branch of thick-leaved elder. She gave it to Alida, and the girl gravely
shaded herself with it from the defacing sun. They walked along together
in silence for a moment, and Dorcas frankly studied Alida's face. There
was no sign of grief upon it, of loneliness, of discontent. The skin was
like a rose, a fainter, pinker rose than Dorcas had ever seen. The soft
lips kept their lovely curve.

"'Lida," she breathed, "what you goin' to do to-night?"

"I don't know," said Alida, in her even voice. "Sometimes I sew, when it
ain't too hot. I'm makin' me a dotted muslin."

Dorcas found her own heart beating fast. The excitement of it all, of
life itself, the bliss, the pain and loss, came keenly on her. She
thought of the days that had gone to buying this thing of prettiness,
the strained muscles, the racing blood and thrilling brain, the sweat
and toil of it, and something choked her to think that now the pretty
thing was almost won. Newell would have it, his heart's desire, and in
thirty years perhaps it would look like Alida's mother with that shallow
mouth. Yet her simple faithfulness was a part of her own blood, and she
could not deny him what was his.

"Alida," she said, in an eloquent throb, "do you--do you like him?"

"Who?" asked Alida calmly, turning clear eyes upon her.

Dorcas laughed shamefacedly.

"I don't know hardly what I'm talkin' about," she said. "I've worked
pretty hard to-day. 'Lida, if there was anybody you liked, anybody you
want to talk things over with--well"--she paused to laugh a
little--"well, if I were you, I should just put on my blue dress, the
one with the pink rosebuds, an' walk along this road down to the pine
grove an' back again."

"The idea!" said Alida, from an unbroken calm. "I should think you were
crazy."

Dorcas stopped in the road, decisively, as if the moment had come for
them to part.

"That's what I should do, 'Lida," she said, "to-night, every night along
about eight, till it happens. An' I should wear my blue."

Alida turned away, as if she felt something unmaidenly in the suggestion
and might well remove herself; yet Dorcas knew she would remember. They
had separated, and when they were a dozen paces apart, Dorcas called
again:--

"'Lida!"

Alida turned. Again Dorcas spoke shyly, from the weight of her great
task.

"'Lida, Newell Bond's sellin' off Sunset Hill. He's doin' well for
himself."

"Is he?" returned Alida primly. "I hadn't he