She pushed out into the cold and darkness, and went on her way, slowly and heavily. "I most hope she'll be cold herself some time, just to see how it feels," she murmured, half aloud, as she caught the last glimpse of Miss Rachael's light, in the bend of the road. "Why couldn't she let me have a couple of old comfortables and pay for it in work? I don't want to beg, goodness knows, but I'll have to come to it, for all I see." Miss Whittaker was not so hard-hearted as she might seem. All the time Mrs. Barnes was talking, she was engaged in consultation with herself as to whether there was anything in the way of bedclothes that she could possibly spare. She did not wish to commit herself, so she made no promises, but she inwardly resolved that on the morrow she would take a look to that end. Accordingly, the next morning found her with her head in chests and closets amid piles of blankets and the like. It was astonishing how many beds one woman, who lived all alone, had to provide for. That pile was for Sister Martha's bed, that for Elvira's, that for Brother Ephraim's. Then, suppose they should all come at once and bring a couple of children apiece; they never had yet, but then they might, and if they did, at least six beds would need to be made ready; and if the weather should prove to be very cold at the time, why, it would take an enormous amount of covering, and it was always best to be ready for emergencies. Then there were certain quilts that she would not part with under any consideration, even though they were somewhat faded. The "album" quilt contained precious association of all the Whittaker family. The "wheel within a wheel" mother pieced and quilted; "the birds in the air" she pieced herself, beginning at the early age of four. As for common comfortables, it was needful to have a good many to spread over feather beds and mattresses. There! It was done. Miss Rachel had gone laboriously through them all, and yet nothing had been found that was in any way suitable to bestow upon the Widow Barnes. Dinner time came now, and she put them all away with—"I will see about it some other time." Ah, how many good things Satan hinders with that salve to the conscience—"some other time"! After the cold came the snow, pouring out from the sky one ceaseless, silent stream for three days and nights. It piled itself in huge drifts in roadways, hid the fences, and—most buried the little house in the hollow. The widow occupied her time in shovelling snow before her doors and windows, lest they should be buried entirely. Her thoughts, meantime, were gloomy and sad. She knew about the God who hears the young ravens when they cry, but she did not believe He would hear her, and—like many more of his children—when trouble came, stopped her ears to gracious promises and fell into sullen gloom.