any great deed of atonement, there were always the little worries of
every day to be patiently borne, not the least of which was a sort of
nagging spirit which had gone abroad among the old neighbors and friends
of the Olmstead family. Possibly they were a trifle jealous of Sara's
looks and bearing; it may be those who had predicted failure for her,
"because them as keeps so stiddy to books ain't apt to hev much sense at
things what caounts," were disappointed that she succeeded so well,
or,--let us be charitable,--perhaps they thought the children all needed
a little maternal scolding on general principles; anyhow, whatever they
thought, there was something unpleasant in the air.

Sara felt it keenly, and drew still farther into her shell of reticence,
keeping closely to her studies and home duties, until the neighbors had
some excuse for their plaints that "she didn't care for nothin' nor
nobody but them pesky books!"

One day Mrs. Updyke came in, sniffing as usual, and casting a hasty
glance about the room with her cold, restless eyes.

"How d'ye do, Sairay?" she remarked, loosening her shawl. "I thort as
how ye mought be lonesome, so I come over an' brung my knittin' a while;
you got some on hand tew, I s'pose?"

"Well, not knitting, but I've sewing," said Sara, trying to feel
hospitable, and wondering what Mrs. Updyke would think if she should
confess that she scarcely knew the meaning of that word "lonesome." "Let
me take your hood and shawl, won't you?"

"Waal, while I set; is the babby's well as usual?" with a keen glance at
the little fellow, who was happily dragging a pasteboard cart on spool