The figure of a woman who held her hooded shawl under her chin, stole
with steps often checked through the limp, dew-laden grass of the
woods-pasture and slipped on the rotting logs. But she caught herself from
tumbling, and safely gained the border of Gillespie's corn field. There
she sat down trembling on the stone doorstep of the spring-house, and
waited rather than rested in the shelter of the chestnut boughs that
overhung the roof. She was aware of the spring gurgling under the stone on
its way into the sunshine, from the crocks of cream-covered milk and of
butter in the cool dark of the hut; she sensed the thick August heat of
the sun already smiting its honeyed odors from the corn; she heard the
scamper of the squirrels preying upon the ripening ears, and whisking in
and out of the woods or dropping into the field from the tips of the
boughs overhanging the nearer rows; but it all came blurred to her
consciousness.

She was recognizably Gillespie's sister, but her eyes and hair were
black. She was wondering how she could get to speak with him when Jane was
not by. He would send the girl away at a sign from her, but she could not
have that; the thing must be kept from the girl but not seem to be kept.

She let her arms rest on her knees; her helpless hands hung heavy from
them; her head was bowed, and her whole body drooped under the burden of
her heart, as if it physically dragged her down. Jane would be coming soon
with the morning's milk to pour into the crocks; she heard a step; the
girl was coming; but she must rest a moment.

"What are you doing here, Nancy?" her brother's voice asked.

"Oh, is it you, David? Oh, blessed be the name of the Lord! Maybe He's
going to be good to me, after all. David, is he gone?"