She had led the life that many an ugly saint leads, here in New
England, and the world over. Nurse and drudge for the pretty younger
sister, the pride and joy of her heart, till she married and went away
to live in a distant State; then drudge and nurse for the invalid
mother, broken down by unremitting toil. No toil would ever break Abby
down, for she was a strong woman; she had never worked too hard that
she was aware of; but--she had always worked, and never done anything
else. No lover had ever looked into her eyes or taken her hand
tenderly. Not likely! she would say to herself with a scornful sniff,
eyeing her homely face in the glass. Men weren't such fools as they
looked.

One or two had wanted to marry her house, as she expressed it, and had
asked for herself into the bargain, not seeing how they could manage it
otherwise. They were not to blame for wanting the house, she thought
with some complacency, as she glanced round her sitting-room.
Everything in the room shone and twinkled. The rugs were beautifully
made, and the floor under them in the usual dining-table condition
ascribed ever since books were written to the model housewife. The
corner cupboards held treasures of blue and white that it makes one
ache to think of to-day, and some pieces of India china besides,
brought over seas by some sea-going Rock of a former generation: and
there were silver spoons in the iron box under Abby's bed, and the
dragon tea-pot on the high narrow mantel-piece was always full, but not
with tea-leaves. Yes, and there was no better cow in the village than
Abby's, save those two fancy heifers that Jacques de Arthenay had
lately bought. Altogether, she did not wonder that some of the weaker
brethren, who found their own farms "hard sledding," should think
enough of her pleasant home to be willing to take her along with it,
since they could do no better; but they did not get it. Abby found