Charlotte turned and looked at her. Rose's eyes met hers, and her
face had a noble expression.

"You write a note to him, and I'll carry it," said Rose. "I'll go
down in the field where he is, on my way home."

Tears sprang into Charlotte's eyes. "You're real good, Rose," she
said; "but I can't."

"Hadn't you better?"

"No; I can't. Don't let's talk any more about it."

Charlotte pushed past Rose's detaining hand, and the girls went
down-stairs. Mrs. Barnard looked around dejectedly at them as they
entered the kitchen. Her eyes were red, and her mouth drooping; she
was clearing the débris of the pies from the table; there was a smell
of baking, but Cephas had gone out. She tried to smile at Rose. "Are
you goin' now?" said she.

"Yes; I've got to. I've got to sew on my muslin dress. When are you
coming over, Aunt Sarah? You haven't been over to our house for an
age."

"I don't care if I never go anywhere!" cried Sarah Barnard, with
sudden desperation. "I'm discouraged." She sank in a chair, and flung
her apron over her face.

"Don't, mother," said Charlotte.