I shall have to harness, an' leave ma'am alone. Oh, I wish Aunt
Melissa'd never darkened these doors!"

Everything went wrong with Amanda, that day. The old horse objected to
the bits, and occupied twenty minutes in exasperating protest; the
wheels had to be greased, and she lost a butter-napkin in the well.
Finally, breathless with exertion, she went in to bid her mother
good-by, and see that the matches were hidden and the cellar door
fastened.

"Now, ma'am," she said, standing over the little old woman and speaking
with great distinctness, "don't you touch the stove, will you? You jest
set right here in your chair till I come back, an' I'll bring you a
good parcel o' pep'-mints. Here's your garter to knit on, an' here's
the almanac. Don't you stir now till I come."

And so, with many misgivings, she drove away.

When, Amanda came back, she did not stay to unharness, but hurried up
to the kitchen door, and called, "You all right, ma'am?" There was no
answer, and she stepped hastily across the floor. As she opened the
sitting-room door, a low moaning struck her ear. The old lady sat
huddled together in, her chair, groaning at intervals, and looking
fixedly at the corner of the room.

"O ma'am, what is it? Where be you hurt?" cried Amanda, possessed by an
anguish of self-reproach. But the old lady only continued her moaning;
and then it was that Amanda noticed her shrivelled and shaking fingers
tightly clasped upon a roll of money in her lap.