The next morning Jane did not come out to breakfast. Virginia had it ready on the table and went to her mother’s room to call her. There was no response. Opening the door, she saw Jane, fully dressed, standing at the window looking out, but she refused to speak when gently informed that breakfast was ready. Then Virginia went back to the kitchen, and, arranging some delicacies, a cup of coffee, and other things on a tray, she took it in and left it on her mother’s table and retired, closing the door after her. For a week Jane refused to leave her room or speak to her daughter. Three times a day Virginia took her mother’s food to her, always finding the window-shade drawn and the chamber dark. One morning, about this time, Virginia happened to see Ann in her peanut-patch, a rich spot of ground below the old woman’s barn-yard, and, seeing that she would be quite unobserved, she put on her bonnet and shawl and joined Ann, who, with a long, narrow hoe, was carefully digging the peanuts from the hills, and pulling them out by the brown, frost-bitten vines, and shaking the earth from their roots and leaving them to dry and season in the open air. "I never saw goobers to beat these," Ann said, proudly, as she held up a weighty bunch. "I reckon this patch will turn out a good hundred bushel. I hit it just right; they tell me in town that they are bringing a fine price. I’ve been wondering what was the matter with you, child. You’ve been keeping powerful close in-doors." Then, as Ann leaned on her smooth hoe-handle, Virginia told her frankly all that had taken place, leaving out nothing, and ending with her mother’s self-incarceration and sullen mood.