Her own mother has turned her out, an' Barney can't take her
in. She's got to go somewhere where there's a woman; she's terrible
upset. There ain't no other way but for you an' Mis' Barnes to take
her home to-night, an' keep her till William gets a place fixed to
put her in." Mrs. Sloane turned to the minister and his wife,
regarding them with a mixture of defiance, sarcasm, and appeal.
They looked at each other hesitatingly. The minister's wife paled
within her hood, and her eyes reddened with tears.
"I shouldn't s'pose you'd need any time to think on it, such good
folks as you be," said Mrs. Sloane. "There ain't no other way. She's
got to be where there's a woman."
Mrs. Barnes turned her head towards her husband. "She can come, if
you think she ought to," she said, in a trembling voice.
The sun was setting when the party started. William led Rebecca out
through the kitchen--a muffled, hesitating figure, whose very
identity seemed to be lost, for she wore Mrs. Sloane's blue plaid
shawl pinned closely over her head and face--and lifted her into his
cutter with the minister and his wife. Then he and Barney walked
along, plodding through the deep snow behind the cutter. The sun was
setting, and it was bitterly cold; the snow creaked and the trees
swung with a stiff rattle of bare limbs in the wind.
The two men never spoke to each other.
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