And now gentle, little, eighteen-year-old Alice was gone too.

Mrs. Sears sat down and cried in that patient, helpless, miserable way
of hers. She didn't know just what she was crying for, herself or the
children. Life was a hopeless, unmanageable tangle that seemed to give
her nothing and take her all. So Mrs. Sears sat and cried. It was a
habit she had.

Fanny Foster came along just then. She had run over to see if she
couldn't borrow a cake of yeast. She was going to town in an hour, she
said, but she wanted to set her bread before she went and she'd bring
yeast back with her and--

"Why, for pity's sake alive, Mrs. Sears, what's the matter?"

That was just Fanny's luck or perhaps her misfortune, her happening on
events first-hand that way. She read the letter of course, sympathized
with Mrs. Sears, patted her check and told her not to worry, that
everything would be all right and to set right still, that she'd be
right back to do the dishes and stay with her.

And Fanny hurried to town, talking all the way. She came back in
record time but by the time she had her hands in Mrs. Sears' dishpan
Green Valley was already buzzing with astonishment. Some were shaking
their heads in utter unbelief, some were smiling and one or two who had
slept badly were saying something like this:

"Well, did you ever! And you never can tell. Those meek, quiet little
things are usually deep. And the dear Lord only knows what the true
state of things is. And poor Mrs. Sears! Of course, she's done her