Mrs. Maxwell turned over a page of the album. "That's Mis' Robinson's
sister. She's dead too. She married a man over at Milton, an' didn't
live a year," she said ostentatiously. "Hadn't I better get her a
little?" she whispered.

"Mebbe it would do her good, if you've got it to spare," Mrs. Field
whispered back.

"Here's the minister's little boy that died," said Mrs. Maxwell. "He
wasn't sick but a day. He ate milk an' cherries. I wonder where Flora
is? She didn't have a thing to do but comb her hair and change her
dress. I guess I'll go call her."

Mrs. Maxwell's face was frowning with innocent purpose, but there was
a sly note in her voice. She hurried out of the room and they heard
her call, "Flora! Flora!" in the entry. Then they heard her footsteps
on the cellar stairs.

Lois turned to her mother. "Mother," said she, "I can't stand it--I
can't stand it anyway in the world."

Her mother turned over another page of the photograph album. She
looked at a faded picture of a middle-aged woman, whose severe and
melancholy face seemed to have betrayed all the sadness and toil of
her whole life to the camera. She noted deliberately the
old-fashioned sweep of the skirt quite across the little card, and
the obsolete sleeves, then she spoke as if she were talking to the
picture: "I'm a-followin' out my own law an' my own right," said she.
"I ain't ashamed of it. If you want to be you can."