She rose and placed her knitting on the high chimney-piece--she
generally put it there out of the way of the cat, who played with the
ball--and opened the door and peered out into the darkness. There was a
sound of footsteps along the frozen high road. She listened intently,
but the horses began to move about in the stable close by and she could
no longer hear the footsteps.

The cold wind blew right against her, chilling her through and through.
But she still stood there in the doorway. By-and-by there were
unmistakable footsteps near at hand. A moment more and John was beside
her. He was alone. "Wife," he began in a hollow voice, "Nan left Miss
Michin as usual; has she been home?"

"I told you she had," gasped the mother. "I told you she and me had had
a tiff about the money."

John Forest made no comment, he was too desperate for that. He knew well
enough that if his quiet, patient little Nan had gone away, she must be
in a state of mind out of which tragedies come. He would go and rouse
Jim Lincoln, who slept in the stable loft, and they would search for
her. Mrs. Forest watched her husband disappear in the dim starlight, and
then went back to the kitchen. Vague fears took possession of her. She
dreaded she knew not what. All her unkindness to Nancy, culminating in
last night's blow, seemed to rise up against her. Even as to the taking
of the money, Nancy had had her father's sanction and might have thought
that enough. But Nancy denied having touched the money; _what if, after
all, she had spoken the truth!_ She had always been particularly
truthful in even the smallest matters. Mrs. Forest would try not to
think any more; it was too painful. She would reach down her knitting
and try to "do" a bit.