on her knee, her chin in her hand; she was listening to the peace, and
thinking--not anxiously, but seriously. After all, it was a great
undertaking: Nathaniel wasn't "hearty," perhaps,--but when you don't
average four eggs a day (for in November and December the hens do act
like they are possessed!); when sometimes your cow will be dry; when
your neighbor is mad and won't remember the potato-barrel--the outlook
for one is not simple; for two it is sobering.

"But I can do it," Lizzie said to herself, and set her lips hard
together.

The gate clicked shut, and Mrs. Butterfield came in, running almost.
"Look here, Lizzie Graham,--oh my! wait till I get my breath;--_Lizzie,
you can't do it._ Because--" And then, panting, she explained.
"So, you see, you just can't," she repeated.

Lizzie said something under her breath, and stared with blank
bewilderment at her informant.

"Maybe Josh don't know?"

"Maybe he does know," retorted Mrs. Butterfield. "Goodness! makes me
tremble to think if he hadn't told me to-night! Supposin' he hadn't
let on about it till this time to-morrow?"

Lizzie put her hands over her face with an exclamation of dismay.

"Oh, well, there!" Mrs. Butterfield said, comfortably; "I don't
believe Nat'll mind after he's been at the Farm a bit. Honest, I
don't, Lizzie. How comes it you didn't know yourself?"