Years had wrought changes; the walls were now darkened with smoke, the
windows dingy, the floor sunken in; there was nothing cheery in the
ill-kept room, or in the face of Aunt Ruth. Some natures become
shriveled and cramped when left to themselves, and hers was such an one;
I am afraid it was also narrowed and hardened by being shut off from
humanity, with none to share her joys or grief, or to care indeed, if
she had any.

As the days came and went, they brought nothing to her but a little
round of chores, a bit of patchwork, or straw braiding, and occasionally
a walk to the village store to buy the few articles she required.

The gay dresses and pert stare of the village girls, the glimpses of
happy homes caught through the windows, and the noisy stir of life, only
made more striking the contrast of her own lonely lot. Gladly would she
hasten back to her own silent fireside, where the cats, at least, were
glad of her presence. Old Brindle knew her step, and tossed her head
impatiently for nubbins of corn, or the pail of slop with which she was
wont to be treated. The hens cackled merrily, and scarcely stirred from
their tracks, as her dress brushed their shining feathers.

The care of these creatures was a kind of company, and on frosty
mornings Aunt Ruth might be seen watching them eating so greedily,
while her own breakfast was yet untasted, and her feet and fingers
benumbed with cold.

Though none shared her heart or home, yet there was sometimes one bright
presence within those dim walls, a childish, questioning voice, and
sweet laughter.