The glory of that poem she had read, thinking only of her own petty triumph, came suddenly over her thought by some association,--she could not trace out how. Its grand meaning was a meaning, all at once, for her. With a changed phrasing, like a heavenly inspiration, the last line sprang up in her mind, as if somebody stood by and spoke it:-- "These are the lambs of the sacrifice: _this_ is the court of the King!" CHAPTER XVIII. BRICKFIELD FARMS. It was a rainy, desolate day. It had rained the day before yesterday, and yesterday, and half cleared up last night; then this morning it had sullenly and tiresomely begun again. All the forenoon it grew worse; in the afternoon, heavy, pelting, streaming showers came down, filling the Kiln Hollow with mist, and hiding the tops of the hills about it with low, rolling, ever-gathering and resolving clouds. It seemed as if all the autumn joy were over; as if the pleasant days were done with till another year. After this, the cold would set in. Mrs. Jeffords had a bright fire built in Mrs. Argenter's room, another in the family sitting-room. It looked cosy; but it reminded the sojourners that they had not simply to draw themselves into winter-quarters, and be comfortable; their winter-quarters were yet to seek. Sylvie had been cracking a plateful of butternuts; picking out meats, I mean, from the cracked nuts, to make a plateful; and that, if you know butternuts, you know is no small task. She brought them to her mother, with some grated maple sugar sprinkled among and over them. "This is what you liked so much at the Shakers' in Lebanon," she said. "See if it isn't as nice as theirs, I think it is fresher. Here is a tiny little pickle-fork, to eat with." Mrs. Argenter took the offered dainty. "You are a dear child," she said. "Come and eat some too." "O, I ate as I went along. Now, I'll read to you." And she took up "Blindpits," which her mother had laid down. "If it only wouldn't storm so," said Mrs. Argenter. "Mrs. Jeffords says there will be a freshet. The roads will be all torn up. We shall never be able to get home." "O yes, we shall," said Sylvie, cheerily; putting down the wonder that arose obtrusively in her own mind as to where the home would be that they should go to. "Did Mrs. Jeffords tell you about last year's freshet? And the apples?" "She said they had an awful flood. The brooks turned into rivers, and the rivers swallowed up everything." "O, she didn't get to the funny part, then?" said Sylvie. "She didn't tell you about the apples?" "No. I think she keeps the funny parts for you, Sylvie."