Lizzie, smiling, had left him to his joy, and gone back to sit under
her elm in the twilight, and think soberly of the economies which a
husband--such a husband--would necessitate.

And then Mrs. Butterfield had come panting up to the gate; and now--

"I don't see as I can tell him!" she thought, desperately. To go and
say to Nathaniel, all eager and happy and full of hope as he was, "You
must go to the Farm,"--would be like striking in the face some child
that is holding out its arms to you. Lizzie twisted her hands
together. "I just can't!" But, of course, she would have to. That was
all there was to it. If she married him, why, there would be two to go
to the Farm instead of one. Oh, why wouldn't they give her her pension
if she married again! Her eyes smarted with tears; Nathaniel's pain
seemed to her unendurable.

But all the same, the next morning, heavily, she set out to tell him.

At Dyer's, Jonesville had gathered to see the sight; and as she came
up to the porch, there were nudgings and whisperings, and Hiram Wells,
bolder than the rest, said, "Well, Mis' Graham, this is a fine day for
a weddin'--"

Lizzie Graham, without turning her head, said, coldly, "There ain't
goin' to be no weddin'." Then she went on upstairs to Nathaniel's
room.

The idlers on the porch looked at each other and guffawed. "I knowed
Sam was foolin' us," somebody said.