When she reached the kitchen door, she was faint with exhaustion. At first everything was black before her. Then she saw Jacob Kalb's wife standing by the stove. She was a large, fair-haired woman, with strong, bare arms. She had just lifted a pie from the oven and stood with it still in her hands, looking at little Sarah. "I--I--you needn't bake for me," said Sarah when she could get her breath. "I am much obliged that you did the milking, but you need not bake for me." "I am baking for myself," answered Mrs. Kalb stolidly. "Well, you needn't bake _here_," cried Sarah. Suddenly there came a rush of comprehension. It seemed for an instant as though she could neither breathe nor think. Her uncle had made Albert sick, he had sent for her to cure him, and then he had sent this woman down here to take possession. She moved a step closer. "Go out of my kitchen," she commanded thickly. "This is my kitchen, it isn't yours. These are my things, they are not yours. They are not my uncle's. He had no right to send you here. You could be arrested for it. It is stealing. Get out of my kitchen." Suddenly everything seemed to grow black once more, and Sarah reeled. The woman came toward her. "Are you sick? You better sit down once. It isn't my fault that I have to live here. If I don't live here, somebody else will. Let me take off your shawl for you." "Ach, no!" cried little Sarah. "Don't touch me! Don't touch me!" "I guess I won't do you anything if I touch you," answered the woman, the kindness in her voice changing to irritation. "Well, what in the world--" Sarah had gone, leaving the door open behind her. Mrs. Kalb watched her run down the lane, stopping occasionally to gasp for breath. "Let her go and talk to Swartz," muttered Mrs. Kalb to herself. Then she went back to her work. Sarah did not turn to go across the fields to the Swartz house, but went on out to the high-road. There she stood, looking about her, bewildered. The blow had fallen at last. She had expected it hourly, but she had not foreseen such heartache as this. She had no home, and the children had no home, and William, _if_ he came back, would have no home. The children might grow accustomed to life at Aunt Mena's and Uncle Daniel's,--she knew nothing then of Albert's homesickness,--but it would not be home. They would grow away from one another, they would not be like the children of one family. She could not cry, she was too wretched for tears, she could only stand there in the road in the sunshine, trying to decide where she should go. Then suddenly there came to her the touch of Miss Miflin's arms and the sound of Miss Miflin's voice. "To-morrow, you must tell me everything." She did not stop to listen to another voice, which told her that Miss Miflin was a stranger who could not really care, and who could not help. She started away, not running now,--she was too tired for that,--but walking as fast as she could, toward the Spring Grove Schoolhouse.