"And now I beseech thee, lady, not as though I wrote a new commandment
unto thee, but that which we had from the beginning, that we love one
another."

No, it could not be from Justin. She drank her tea, played with her
beans abstractedly, and nibbled her slice of steaming brown bread.

"Not as though I wrote a new commandment unto thee."

No, not a new one; twelve, fifteen years old, that commandment!

"That we love one another."

Who was speaking? Who had written these words? The first letter sounded
just like Mrs. Emerson, who had said she was a very poor correspondent,
but that she should just "drop down" on Nancy one of these days; but this
second letter never came from Mrs. Emerson.--Well, there would be an
explanation some time; a pleasant one; one to smile over, and tell
'Zekiel and repeat to the neighbours; but not an unexpected, sacred,
beautiful explanation, such a one as the heart of a woman could imagine,
if she were young enough and happy enough to hope.

She washed her cup and plate; replaced the uneaten beans in the brown
pot, and put them away with the round loaf, folded the cloth (Lobelia
Brewster said Nancy always "set out her meals as if she was entertainin'
company from Portland"), closed the stove dampers, carried the lighted
lamp to a safe corner shelf, and lifted 'Zekiel to his cushion on the
high-backed rocker, doing all with the nice precision of long habit. Then
she wrapped herself warmly, and locking the lonely little house behind
her, set out to finish her work in the church.