“Thank ye kindly,” said the old woman; “I do want a little sewin’ done before long, but ’tain’t no use to spile a good holiday.” Her face took a resolved expression. “I’m goin’ to make other arrangements,” she said. “No, you needn’t come up here to pass New Year’s Day an’ be put right down to sewin’. I make out to do what mendin’ I need, an’ to sew on my hooks an’ eyes. I get Johnny Ross to thread me up a good lot o’ needles every little while, an’ that helps me a good deal. Abby, why can’t you step into the best room an’ bring out the rockin’-chair? I seem to want Mis’ Hand to have it.” “I opened the window to let the sun in awhile,” said the niece, as she returned. “It felt cool in there an’ shut up.” “I thought of doin’ it not long before you come,” said Mrs. Dallett, looking gratified. Once the taking of such a liberty would have been very provoking to her. “Why, it does seem good to have somebody think o’ things an’ take right hold like that!” “I’m sure you would, if you were down at my house,” said Abby, blushing. “Aunt Cynthy, I don’t suppose you could feel as if ’twould be best to come down an’ pass the winter with me,—just durin’ the cold weather, I mean. You’d see more folks to amuse you, an’—I do think of you so anxious these long winter nights.” There was a terrible silence in the room, and Miss Pendexter felt her heart begin to beat very fast. She did not dare to look at her aunt at first. Presently the silence was broken. Aunt Cynthia had been gazing out of the window, and she turned towards them a little paler and older than before, and smiling sadly. “Well, dear, I’ll do just as you say,” she answered. “I’m beat by age at last, but I’ve had my own way for eighty-five years, come the month o’ March, an’ last winter I did use to lay awake an’ worry in the long storms. I’m kind o’ humble now about livin’ alone to what I was once.” At this moment a new light shone in her face. “I don’t expect you’d be willin’ to come up here an’ stay till spring,—not if I had Foss’s folks stop for you to ride to meetin’ every pleasant Sunday, an’ take you down to the Corners plenty o’ other times besides?” she said beseechingly. “No, Abby, I’m too old to move now; I should be homesick down to the village. If you’ll come an’ stay with me, all I have shall be yours. Mis’ Hand hears me say it.” “Oh, don’t you think o’ that; you’re all I’ve got near to me in the world, an’ I’ll come an’ welcome,” said Abby, though the thought of her own little home gave a hard tug at her heart. “Yes, Aunt Cynthy, I’ll come, an’ we’ll be real comfortable together. I’ve been lonesome sometimes”— “’Twill be best for both,” said Mrs. Hand judicially. And so the great question was settled, and suddenly, without too much excitement, it became a thing of the past.