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“Why, you speak as if something distressed your mind, Abby,” said the elder woman kindly.

“I ain’t one that has myself on my mind as a usual thing, but it does seem now as if I was goin’ to have it very hard,” said Abby. “Well, I ‘ve been anxious before.”

“Is it anything wrong about your property?” Mrs. Hand ventured to ask.

“Only that I ain’t got any,” answered. Abby, trying to speak gayly. “‘T was all I could do to pay my last quarter’s rent, twelve dollars. I sold my hens, all but this one that had run away at the time, an’ now I ‘m carryin’ her up to Aunt Cynthy, roasted just as nice as I know how.”

“I thought you was carrying somethin’,” said Mrs. Hand, in her usual tone. “For me, I ‘ve got a couple o’ my mince pies. I thought the old lady might like ’em; one we can eat for our dinner, and one she shall have to keep. But were n’t you unwise to sacrifice your poultry, Abby? You always need eggs, and hens don’t cost much to keep.”

“Why, yes, I shall miss ’em,” said Abby; “but, you see, I had to do every way to get my rent-money. Now the shop ‘s shut down I have n’t got any way of earnin’ anything, and I spent what little I ‘ve saved through the summer.”

“Your aunt Cynthy ought to know it an’ ought to help you,” said Mrs. Hand. “You ‘re a real foolish person, I must say. I expect you do for her when she ought to do for you.”

“She ‘s old, an’ she ‘s all the near relation I ‘ve got,” said the little woman. “I ‘ve always felt the time would come when she ‘d need me, but it’s been her great pleasure to live alone an’ feel free. I shall get along somehow, but I shall have it hard. Somebody may want help for a spell this winter, but I ‘m afraid I shall have to give up my house. ‘T ain’t as if I owned it. I don’t know just what to do, but there’ll be a way.”

Mrs. Hand shifted her two pies to the other arm, and stepped across to the other side of the road where the ground looked a little smoother.

“No, I wouldn’t worry if I was you, Abby,” she said. “There, I suppose if ‘t was me I should worry a good deal more! I expect I should lay awake nights.” But Abby answered nothing, and they came to a steep place in the road and found another subject for conversation at the top.

“Your aunt don’t know we ‘re coming?” asked the chief guest of the occasion.

“Oh, no, I never send her word,” said Miss Pendexter. “She ‘d be so desirous to get everything ready, just as she used to.”

“She never seemed to make any trouble o’ havin’ company; she always appeared so easy and pleasant, and let you set with her while she made her preparations,” said Mrs. Hand, with great approval. “Some has such a dreadful way of making you feel inopportune, and you can’t always send word you ‘re comin’. I did have a visit once that’s always been a lesson to me; ‘t was years ago; I don’t know ‘s I ever told you?”

“I don’t believe you ever did,” responded the listener to this somewhat indefinite prelude.

“Well, ‘t was one hot summer afternoon. I set forth an’ took a great long walk ‘way over to Mis’ Eben Fulham’s, on the crossroad between the cranberry ma’sh and Staples’s Corner. The doctor was drivin’ that way, an’ he give me a lift that shortened it some at the last; but I never should have started, if I ‘d known ‘t was so far. I had been promisin’ all summer to go, and every time I saw Mis’ Fulham, Sundays, she ‘d say somethin’ about it. We wa’n’t very well acquainted, but always friendly. She moved here from Bedford Hill.”