Anna and Sanderson Again Meet

"Come upstairs, Marthy, and I'll show you my new shirtwaists."

"Land sakes," said the spinster, bridling. "I would be delighted, but
you know how I can't move without that Seth Holcomb a-taggin' after me;
it's just awful the way I am persecuted. I do wish I'd get old and
then there'll be an end of it." She held out a pair of mittens,
vintage of 1812, to Kate, appealingly.

Seth Holcomb stumped in sight as she concluded; he had been Martha's
faithful admirer these twenty years, but she would never reward him;
her hopes of younger and less rheumatic game seemed to spring eternal.

During the few days that Anna had made one of the Squire's family she
went about with deep thankfulness in her heart; she had been given the
chance to work, to earn her bread by these good people. Who could
tell--as time went on perhaps they would grow fond of her, learn to
regard her as one of themselves--it was so much better than being so
utterly alone.

Her energy never flagged, she did her share of the work with the light
hand of experience that delighted the old housekeeper. It was so good
to feel a roof over her head, and to feel that she was earning her
right to it.

Supper had been cooked, the table laid and everything was in readiness
for the family meal, but the old clock wanted five minutes of the hour;
the girl came out into the glowing sunset to draw a pail of water from
the old well, but paused to enjoy the scene. Purple, gold and crimson
was the mantle of the departing day; and all her crushed and hopeless
youth rose, cheered by its glory.