Sidney took off her sunbonnet and hung it on the fence, and let her hair loose and twisted it up again, while having her laugh out before going in the house. There was not a grain of malice in her frank shrewdness. Adversity's sweet milk had been her daily drink, ever since she could remember. Old lady Gordon herself would have been amused at the good-humored account of her own starting to "make a broad," could she have heard Sidney telling Tom and Anne Watson about it. For that handsome old pagan had a wholesome sense of humor. But Tom Watson apparently did not hear; his miserable, restless eyes never turned toward Sidney, never for a moment ceased their fruitless quest of the empty big road. Only a pale shadow of a smile flitted over Anne's white, tense face. And Sidney, seeing that her efforts were wholly wasted, soon arose to go on her way, and Anne went with her to the gate--as far as she ever went from her hopeless post, except for the breaking of bread on the Sundays when there was preaching at her own church; and for an hour now and then, on prayer-meeting nights, when she felt that her own supplications alone were not strong enough. She held Sidney's large, firm, rough, capable hand longer than usual, as if she instinctively sought strength and courage in clinging to it. Her clear eyes, too, were full of a silent, unconscious appeal, and Sidney said, in answer to the look, that she would come again the next day and every day, if her coming could help in the least. Anne simply bowed her head; she did not attempt to speak, and in truth there was nothing to be said. She made no mention of any inducement to Sidney to come; she did not think of it, nor indeed did Sidney. Yet, when Anne did think of it, later in the day, she was glad to send a large basket, and Sidney was more than glad to have it sent.