_Amelia, a slight, flaxen-haired girl of nineteen, comes in. She brushes
off the hay with which she is covered, and goes to packing a bag with a
secret, but determined, air. The Mother passes the window and appears in
the doorway. She is old and work-worn, but sturdy and stoical. Now she
carries a heavy load of wood, and is weary. She casts a sharp eye at
Amelia._


_Mother:_

What are you doing, girl? [_Amelia starts and puts the bag in the
cupboard._] Who's going away? They haven't sent for Arno?


_Amelia:_

No.


_Mother:_ [_Sighs, and drops her load on the hearth._]

Is the hay all in?


_Amelia:_

Yes. I put in the last load. All the big work on our place is done, and
so--[_Looks at her mother and hesitates. Her mother begins to chop the
wood into kindling._] I'll do that, Mother.