She went about her business and quietly finished it.

It had long been done, and the afternoon was wearing well on,
when Mrs. Landholm came into the kitchen again. Karen had
taken care of the children meanwhile. But where was Winthrop?
The mother, now quite herself, bethought her of him. Karen
knew he was not about the house. But Mrs. Landholm saw that
one of the big barn doors was open, and crossed over to it. A
small field lay between that and the house. The great barn
floor was quite empty, as she entered, except of hay and
grain, with which the sides were tightly filled up to the top;
the ends were neatly dressed off; the floor left clean and
bare. It oddly and strongly struck her, as she saw it, the
thought of the hands that had lately been so busy there; the
work left, the hands gone; and for a few moments she stood
absolutely still, feeling and putting away the idea that made
her heart ache. She had a battle to fight before she was
mistress of herself and could speak Winthrop's name. Nobody
answered; and scolding herself for the tone of her voice, Mrs.
Landholm spoke again. A little rustling let her know that she
was heard; and presently Winthrop made his appearance from
below or from some distant corner behind the hay, and came to
meet her. He could not command his face to his mother's eyes,
and sorrow for Will for a moment was half forgotten in sorrow
for him. As they met she put both hands upon his shoulders,
and said wistfully, "My son?" -- But that little word silenced
them both. It was only to throw their arms about each other
and hide their faces in each other's neck, and cry strange
tears; tears that are drawn from the heart's deepest well.