"I s'pose you think now you've got
Richard Alger that there's nothin' else makes any odds. I guess I've
got some feelin's. Get your hood and shawl, now do; dinner was all
ready when I come away."
"I guess I'd better not, Hannah," said Sylvia. It seemed to her that
she never would want anything to eat again. She wanted to be alone in
her old house, and hug her happiness to her heart, whose starvation
had caused her more agony than any other. Now that was appeased she
cared for nothing else.
"You come right along," said Hannah. "I've got a nice roast spare-rib
an' turnip an' squash, an' you're goin' to come an' have some of it."
When Hannah and Sylvia got out on the main road, they heard Sarah
Barnard's voice calling them. She was hurrying down the hill. Cephas
had just come home with the news. Jonathan Leavitt had spread it over
the village from the nucleus of the store where he had stopped on his
way home.
Sarah Barnard sat down on the snowy stone-wall among the last year's
blackberry vines, and cried as if her heart would break. Finally
Hannah, after joining with her awhile, turned to and comforted her.
"Land sake, don't take on so, Sarah Barnard!" said she; "it's all
over now. Sylvy's goin' to marry Richard Alger, an' there ain't a man
in Pembroke any better off, unless it's Squire Payne. She's goin' to
have him right off, an' he's goin' to buy the house an' fix it up,
an' she's goin' to have all his mother's nice things, an' she's
comin' home with me now, an' have some nice roast spare-rib an'
turnip.
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