were no bones broken, but she, too, sank to rest in the old gray
churchyard.

It was three years before I went back. Then they said, "Miss Chrissy is
alone." Alone I found her. She was little changed. The brightness had
merely gone from her smile. I noticed that her talk was less of her
patterns, and more of the gray slabs. She no longer clung to the proud
little boast, "I design my own patterns." She was apt to tell what Suffy
said, or Polly, or Phoebe, not forgetting Becky, our quilter.

"No," she said, when I asked: "Polly was not sick. She said in the
morning, 'Chrissy, do you ever feel strange in your head?' Next morning
she did not wake up. Suffy was never as strong as the rest--her back was
bad; so when she had a sort of fit one day, it was soon over."

"You don't--you can't--stay here all alone?"

"No, Mrs. John, Henrietta is with me. You know Henrietta? She belongs to
the people down stairs. I shan't forget her kindness."

"Are you very lonely, Miss Chrissy?" I asked, choking down the tears.

"No, not lonely. The dear Lord is with me; He will stay to the end. No,
Mrs. John, not lonely."

She had always refrained, in diffidence, or humility, from religious
talk. I know it was from no lack of deep spiritual conviction. If ever
the world contained a purer, sweeter sisterhood, I have not known it.
Their work was homely, as their lives were secluded, but no one ever
saw them idle or impatient. In one straight and narrow path they walked