"Well, I'll get you a night-gown."

Both of their faces were sober, but perfectly staid. They bade each
other good-night without a quiver; but Charlotte, after she had said
her dutiful and unquestioning prayer, and lay folded in Sylvia's
ruffled night-gown in the best bed, shook with great sobs. "Poor
Barney!" she kept muttering. "Poor Barney! poor Barney!"

The doors were all open, and once she thought she heard a sob from
below, then concluded she must be mistaken. But she was not, for
Sylvia Crane was lamenting as sorely as the younger maiden up-stairs.
"Poor Richard!" she repeated, piteously. "Poor Richard! There he
came, and the stone was up, and he had to go away."

The faces which were so clear to the hearts of both women, as if they
were before their eyes, had a certain similarity. Indeed, Richard
Alger and Barnabas Thayer were distantly related on the mother's
side, and people said they looked enough alike to be brothers. Sylvia
saw the same type of face as Charlotte, only Richard's face was
older, for he was six years older than she.

"If I hadn't put the stone up," she moaned, "maybe he would have
thought I didn't hear him knock, an' he'd come in an' waited. Poor
Richard, I dunno what he thought! It's the first time it's happened
for eighteen years."

Sylvia, as she lay there, looked backward, and it seemed to her that
the eighteen years were all made up of the Sunday nights on which
Richard Alger had come to see her, as if they were all that made them
immortal and redeemed them from the dead past. She had endured grief,