the tones of her grandfather's voice would have filled up
every gap in the meaning of the scattered words that came to
her ear. Her heart sank fast as the dialogue went on; and she
needed no commentary or explanation to interpret the bitter
little laugh with which it closed. It was a chill upon all the
rosy joys and hopes of a most joyful and hopeful little
nature.

The old mare was in motion again, but Fleda no longer cared or
had the curiosity to ask where they were going. The
bittersweet lay listlessly in her lap; her letter, clasped to
her breast, was not thought of; and tears were quietly running
one after the other down her cheeks and falling on her sleeve;
she dared not lift her handkerchief nor turn her face towards
her grandfather lest they should catch his eye. Her
grandfather? — could it be possible that he must be turned out
of his old home in his old age? could it be possible? Mr.
Jolly seemed to think it might be, and her grandfather seemed
to think it must. Leave the old house! But where would he go?
— Son or daughter he had none left; resources he could have
none, or this need not happen. Work he could not; be dependent
upon the charity of any kin or friend she knew he would never;
she remembered hearing him once say he could better bear to go
to the almshouse than do any such thing. And then, if they
went, he would have his pleasant room no more where the sun
shone in so cheerfully, and they must leave the dear old
kitchen where they had been so happy; and the meadows and
hills would belong to somebody else, and she would gather her
stores of butternuts and chestnuts under the loved old trees
never again. But these things were nothing, though the image