The bell pealed again. Annie stood still, her mouth quivering in a strange, rigid fashion. The curtains in the dining-room windows were not drawn. Suddenly one window showed full of her sisters' faces. It was Susan who spoke. “Annie, you can't mean to lock us out?” Susan's face looked strange and wild, peering in out of the dark. Imogen's handsome face towered over her shoulder. “We think it advisable to close our house and make you a visit,” she said, quite distinctly through the glass. Then Jane said, with an inaudible sob, “Dear Annie, you can't mean to keep us out!” Annie looked at them and said not a word. Their half-commanding, half-imploring voices continued a while. Then the faces disappeared. Annie turned to her father. “God knows if I have done right,” she said, “but I am doing what you have taken me to account for not doing.” “Yes, I know,” said Silas. He sat for a while silent. Then he rose, kissed Annie--something he had seldom done--and went home. After he had gone Annie sat down and cried. She did not go to bed that night. The cat jumped up in her lap, and she was glad of that soft, purring comfort. It seemed to her as if she had committed a great crime, and as if she had suffered martyrdom. She loved her father and her sisters with such intensity that her heart groaned with the weight of pure love. For the time it seemed to her that she loved them more than the man whom she was to marry. She sat there and held herself, as with chains of agony, from rushing out into the night, home to them all, and breaking her vow. It was never quite so bad after that night, for Annie compromised. She baked bread and cake and pies, and carried them over after nightfall and left them at her father's door. She even, later on, made a pot of coffee, and hurried over with it in the dawn-light, always watching behind a corner of a curtain until she saw an arm reached out for it. All this comforted Annie, and, moreover, the time was drawing near when she could go home. Tom Reed had been delayed much longer than he expected. He would not be home before early fall. They would not be married until November, and she would have several months at home first. At last the day came. Out in Silas Hempstead's front yard the grass waved tall, dotted with disks of clover. Benny was home, and he had been over to see Annie every day since his return. That morning when Annie looked out of her window the first thing she saw was Benny waving a scythe in awkward sweep among the grass and clover. An immense pity seized her at the sight. She realized that he was doing this for her, conquering his indolence. She almost sobbed. “Dear, dear boy, he will cut himself,” she thought. Then she conquered her own love and pity, even as her brother was conquering his sloth. She understood clearly that it was better for Benny to go on with his task even if he did cut himself.