It would be unfair to say that Isabel purposely misrepresented anything; it is nearer the truth to describe her as confounding her own anxiety with her companion’s action. At all events, the narrative to be gleaned from her scattering descriptions and exclamations had the effect of creating in Seth’s mind the impression that he could never be sufficiently grateful to his sister-in-law. As for Annie, the whole momentous episode had come so swiftly, had been so imperative, exhaustive in its demands of all her faculties, and then had so suddenly dwindled to the unromantic conditions of drying wet clothes at a brush fire, that her thoughts upon it were extremely confused. She scarcely took part in the conversation. Perhaps she felt vaguely that her own share in the thing was not made to stand forth with all the prominence it deserved, but she took it for granted that, in his first waking moments, while he was alone with Isabel, Seth had been told the central fact of her going into the water for him, and, if he was not effusively grateful, why--it was not Seth’s way to be demonstrative. Besides she said to herself, she did not want to be thanked. Still, late that night, long hours after Seth had said good-night to her at the Warren gate, and she had almost guiltily stolen up to her room without braving her grandmother’s questions, Annie could not go to sleep for thinking:-- “He might at least have _looked_ some thanks, even if he did not speak them.” ***** Three days later, Seth departed for the city. It was not a particularly impressive ceremony, this leave-taking, not half so much as he had imagined it would be. He had risen early, dressed himself in one of the two new, ready-made, cheap suits Albert had bought for him at Thessaly and packed all his possessions in the carpet satchel which had been in the family he knew not how long--and still found, when he descended the stairs, that he was the first down. It was a dark, rainy morning, and the living room looked unspeakably desolate, and felt disagreeably cold. He sat for a long time by a window pondering the last copy of John’s _Banner_, and trying to thus prepare his mind for that immense ordeal of daily newspaper work, that struggle of unknown, titanic proportions, now close before him. Alvira at last came in to lay the breakfast table. “Hello, you up already?” was all she said; but he felt she was eyeing him furtively, as if even thus soon he was a stranger in the house of his birth. Aunt Sabrina next appeared. “There! I knew it ’d rain,” she exclaimed. “I told Alviry so last night. When th’ cords on th’ curtains git limp, yeh can’t fool me ’baout it’s not rainin’. ’N’ Seth, I hope you’ll go to Church regular whatever else you dew. ’N’ ef yeh could take a class in th’ Sunday schewl, it’d go a long ways tow’rd keepin’ yeh aout o’ temptation. Will yeh go to th’ Baptist Church, think? Th’ Fairchilds ’v’ allus be’n Baptists.”