It was like Marcia Haddon to stand erect, her features controlled, though tears dropped from her eyes. And it was like Polly Pendleton to grasp both her hands and kiss her, when, sobbing, she fumbled for her small belongings as she turned to go. CHAPTER XXVII THE SEEKING THE unusual sounds of the street still came to the ears of all in the little village, but Marcia Haddon, agitated, held to her own room and tried to rest, to forget. She was aroused by the sudden advent of Granny Williams herself. “Come on out here, Ma’am,” said that worthy. “I want ye to meet Davy’s granny—old Granny Joslin. She’s come down to talk things over to-day. Them two young wimmern has went away. They said they couldn’t stay, so I sont ‘em over to the blacksmith’s to stop. So set down an’ talk to Davy’s granny, Ma’am.” Marcia was not prepared for the vision that met her gaze. Old Granny Joslin was old, very much older even than Granny Williams, more bent, less active, more afflicted by the blows of life and fate. Indeed, of late, Granny Joslin had seemed to all scarce so savage as of old, a trifle more bent than she had been in all her life before. Her eye was less fierce, as now she took the young woman’s hand in her own skinny, horny palm and looked into her eyes as straight as a hawk might. “So ye air the furrin womern that Davy tolt me about,” said she. “Well, ye’re right purty, that’s shore.” “Hain’t she, though!” affirmed Granny Williams. “Hain’t she, though!—an’ gittin’ purtier right along. If only she’d taken a few doses of camomile an’ sage, I’d ‘a’ had her ready by now so’s she could do a day’s work. She’s powerful triflin’, Granny.” Even old women called Granny Joslin “Granny,” for she was older than the oldest of them. But Granny Joslin for some reason seemed softened quite beyond her wont. “I’m glad to see ye, Ma’am,” said she. “I’m sorry ye lost yore man down at the Narrers. Hit’s a powerful mean place fer a man to git in—thar’s a heap of graves around thar—men lost from the rafts at the Narrers. Davy’s tolt me, many’s the time.” Marcia Haddon did not make any response. “Davy tolt me all about ye, too,” continued the old woman. “I know ye must be moughty lonesome in here. When air ye goin’ back, Ma’am?” “I don’t know,” said Marcia Haddon. “I’ve been here longer than I had planned—I ought to go any time—I must go now.” “Did ye hear the playin’ in the street right now?” asked the old woman suddenly. “Has the war came up North as well as here?” “Yes, Mrs. Joslin. It’s an awful, awful thing.” “Well, I don’t know,” rejoined that worthy dame. “Men jest has to do a sartin amount of fightin’ aryways, an’ now they kin git plenty. They’d orter. Davy was the head man of our fam’ly ontel he went away, an’ then Chan Bullock, he taken it on—an’ now not even Chan seems to hev ary bit of sand left. Ma’am, he’s been livin’ right along here, they tell me, sleepin’ right alongside of old Absalom Gannt, an’ he nuvver got him yit!