outer door; both Cyrus and his wife knew they were powerless to stop
her.

"O Marthy, do come back!" wailed Mrs. Pendleton after her. You 'ain't
had a mite o' dinner, an' you'll never git out o' that house alive!"

"I'd rather by half hitch up myself," began Cyrus; but his wife turned
upon him, at the word, bundled him into the kitchen, and shut the door
upon him. Then she went back to her post in the doorway, and peered
after Mrs. Wadleigh's square figure on the dazzling road, with a
melancholy determination to stand by her to the last. Only when it
occurred to her that it was unlucky to watch a departing friend out of
sight, did she shut the door hastily, and go in to reproach Cyrus and
prepare his dinner.

Mrs. Wadleigh plodded steadily onward. Her face had lost its robustness
of scorn, and expressed only a cheerful determination. Once or twice
her mouth relaxed, in retrospective enjoyment of the scene behind her,
and she gave vent to a scornful ejaculation.

"A man in my house!" she said once, aloud. "I guess we'll see!"

She turned into the cross-road, where stood her dear and lonely
dwelling, with no neighbors on either side for half a mile, and stopped
a moment to gaze about her. The road was almost untravelled, and the
snow lay encrusted over the wide fields, sparkling on the heights and
blue in the hollows. The brown bushes by a hidden stone-wall broke the
sheen entrancingly; here and there a dry leaf fluttered, but only
enough to show how still such winter stillness can be, and a flock of
little brown birds rose, with a soft whirr, and settled further on.