Everything was silent and still. There was my kitchen, all empty. Not a thing to be seen but that dear old kitchen—empty—no stove, no table, no chairs, no nothin. There was the winder where I stood cryin the mornin Jobe left. There by that winder I had set a combin my little Jane’s hair years ago, while she drew pictures on them same winderpanes with her little fingers. There were the nails Jobe had drove in the wall when we fust moved in; there was the same floor over which we had walked for years. Oh, how I longed to be a walkin over it agin! I was locked out—I couldent git in. So I went from one winder to another, lookin in at them rooms. There was the same grate that had warmed us; there in that corner, evenin arter evenin, Jobe had set and studied; there in the other corner I had set and knit, or set and read. It seemed that I could see Jobe there now. Oh! how I would love to see him there. Poor Jobe! I wonder if he thinks of the evenins weve spent beside that fire together. There was our bed-room—empty, silent and still—no bed, no nothin. There in that room I had set, nite arter nite, with little Jane when she was sick; there she had throwed her little arms around my neck and put her fevered face agin mine the last time. From that room Ellen Jane Moore had carried her arter she was gone. It was empty now. I was locked out. I couldent go in. Turnin from them rooms, I walked around the yard, lookin at the fence, the well, the coal-house, and the things that had been mine. Then, comin to the front yard, I come to the little white rose-bush; it seemed to look at me pleadin like. I started to go on, but I couldent. That rose-bush seemed to call me back. So I jist got me a sharp stick and dug it up, and took it down to where my things were and wrapped it up in a cloth. When I got back to the big road, and was settin there wonderin what Ide do, how long Ide have to live there in the big road, where Ide go to and sich, Constable Bill Adams come a ridin by. When he got up to me, says he: “Why, Mrs. Gaskins, what are you a doin with all this stuff piled in the road?” “Ime livin here,” says I. “Well, youle have to git this stuff out of the road,” says he. “You darent obstruct the public highway. Its dangerous to have a pile of stuff like this in the big road; its liable to scare horses, and somebody might git hurt or killed. Its aginst the law, Mrs. Gaskins, its aginst the law, and you will have to move it.” “The law put it here,” says I. “No matter,” says he; “youle have to git out of here, or youle be arrested.” “Where will I put it?” “How do I know?” says he. “Youle have to look out for that yourself. Git it out of here, and that mighty quick, or you will git yourself into trouble.” And he rode on towards town.