Asenath turned her head to listen for the last rustle of her dress, then
folded her arms, and, with her eyes upon the sluggish current, sat
still.

An hour and a half later, an Andover farmer, driving home across the
bridge, observed on the river's edge--a shadow cut within a shadow--the
outline of a woman's figure, sitting perfectly still with folded arms.
He reined up and looked down; but it sat quite still.

"Hallo there!" he called; "you'll fall in if you don't look out!" for
the wind was strong, and it blew against the figure; but it did not move
nor make reply. The Andover farmer looked over his shoulder with the
sudden recollection of a ghost-story which he had charged his
grandchildren not to believe last week, cracked his whip, and rumbled
on.

Asenath began to understand by and by that she was cold, so climbed the
bank, made her way over the windy flats, the railroad, and the western
bridge confusedly with an idea of going home. She turned aside by the
toll-gate. The keeper came out to see what she was doing, but she kept
out of his sight behind the great willow and his little blue house,--the
blue house with the green blinds and red moulding. The dam thundered
that night, the wind and the water being high. She made her way up above
it, and looked in. She had never seen it so black and smooth there. As
she listened to the roar, she remembered something that she had
read--was it in the Bible or the Ledger?--about seven thunders uttering
their voices.

"He's sorry for her, and all that," they said.