For a day or two Andrea stayed in her room alone, refusing all offers of sympathy and barely tasting food. But one morning when Margaret went down, she found her in the kitchen going about her work the same as usual. Her face was pale and drawn, but wore a look of quiet resolution that was unearthly. She did not mention Waldsen, but when the day’s work was done, went silently to his attic and, after feeding the birds, sat looking out, where upon the hillside there was a patch of fresh earth. Margaret, watching the chance, followed her, and seated herself also by the window. For a moment neither spoke, and then Andrea laid her head in Margaret’s lap and said, great sobs nearly strangling her,—“Love me! Margaret, love me! I have tried not to speak of him and to keep the grief inside, for we have made you so much trouble, but oh, I cannot!” and the two women, clinging to each other, mingled their tears. When Andrea grew calmer, Margaret spoke of the future, and how she hoped that Andrea would always feel that the Mill Farm was her home. “It’s very good of you, dear Margaret, to want me, and I should like to stay, but I must finish Gurth’s work and make the fruit farm a success,—I know that he would wish it. “These last few days and nights I have thought it out all myself, and I have decided. There is some money, you know; enough, he often said, until the fruit yields a return. I shall hire old Mr. and Mrs. Grigs to live with me, and if, in a year or two, I prosper, I will send for my little brothers (Ernest is twelve already), and then I shall have help enough. “No, do not try to dissuade me, dear Margaret, you do not understand. When a woman has lost the love that bounded her life, the only thing between her and despair is a home!” It fell to Deacon Tolford, in his legal capacity, as probate judge, to take the steps necessary for the regulation of Waldsen’s affairs. He told Andrea that, as a matter of form, he must look through Waldsen’s papers, and she willingly consented, only asking that any letters from herself be left unread. The Deacon spent a morning in the attic, then, coming to the sitting-room where Margaret was sewing, closed the door gently, sat down, and began drumming on the table with his fingers, his face wearing a distressed look. Margaret waited for him to speak, which he soon did, abruptly, as if he was beginning in the middle of his thoughts. “Daughter, I want you to ask Andrea to stop with us as long as she likes. She can’t well go back to Denmark, and I hate to think of her facing the world so soon after this trouble.” “I knew you would wish it, father, so I asked her yesterday to live with us; but she has thought out her future carefully, and I do not see any reason for opposing her.” Then she gave the details of Andrea’s plan.