"Well, well," said the Squire, "when a man's family are against him,
there's only one thing for him to do if he wants any peace of mind, and
that is to come round to their way, and I ain't never goin' to have it
said I went agin the Scripter." He went over to Anna and took her
pale, thin hand in his great brown one.
"Well, little woman, they want you to stay, and I am not going to
interfere. I leave it to you that I won't live to regret it."
This time the tears splashed down the pale cheeks. "Dear sir, I thank
you, and I promise you shall never repent this kindness." Then turning
to the rest--"I thank you all. I can only repay you by doing my best."
"Well said, well said," and Kate gave her a sisterly pat on the shoulder.
Anna would not listen to Mrs. Bartlett's kind suggestion that she should
rest a little while. She went immediately to the house, removed her hat,
and returned completely enveloped in a big gingham apron that proved
wonderfully becoming to her dark beauty--or was it that the homeless,
hunted look had gone out of those sorrowful eyes?
And so Anna Moore had found a home at last, one in which she would have
to work early and late to retain a foothold--but still a home, and the
word rang in her ears like a soothing song, after the anguish of the last
year. Her youth and beauty, she had long since discovered, were only
barriers to the surroundings she sought. There had been many who offered
to help the friendless girl, but their offers were such that death seemed
preferable, by contrast, and Anna had gone from place to place, seeking
only the right to earn her bread, and yet, finding only temptation and
danger.
Dave, passing out to the barn, stopped for a moment to regard her, as she
sat on the lowest step of the porch, with her sleeves rolled above the
elbow, working a bowl of butter. He smiled at her encouragingly--it was
well that none of his family saw it. Such a smile from the shy, silent
Dave might have been a revelation to the home circle.