“They are buried over there, under the savin-bushes,” said the old woman. “I was rocked in that there cradle, and my twin brother, who went out West. I wish that he could have had that cradle. I think of him all the time of late. He and a little granddaughter are all that’s left. The auctioneer spoke true—he did; there’s been many a prayer made over that cradle, and now it is gone out of the family. I’ve prayed that it might not be so. It will all be right by-and-by. The Lord is tedious, but He’s sure. I almost lose my faith sometimes, and I can hardly keep back my tears now. Why did you come here, stranger?” “To spend Thanksgiving. I used to live in this town.” “Have you any relations here?” “Yes, a sister. I came to visit her, and I want to buy some of the old furniture; it looks so natural.” “There’s to be no more Thanksgivings for me in this world. Stranger, it does seem rather hard. I’ve always been industrious, and have done my best. Stranger, it is hard when a poor lone woman like me, that never did any one harm, can neither die nor live. Did you ever have any trouble, stranger? You have? Then you do feel for me, don’t you? The Lord forgive me!” The voice of the auctioneer rang out, “How much am I offered?” “Fifty cents,” says old Marlowe, looking at the two chairs as the auctioneer held one up in either hand. “Fifty cents for two family chairs for children at the table. Oak—good as ever—fifty cents! Going, going, going, at fifty cents. Is that all? Fifty cents? Do I hear sixty? Sixty—do I hear it? Going, going; once—do I hear it? Twice—do I hear it? Three times—do I hear it? Are you all done? Fifty cents. Sold to—What shall I call you, stranger?” “Cash,” said the old man. “Cash again,” said the auctioneer. The old woman touches Marlowe on the shoulder: “Have you any children?” “No, my good woman. Only my grandchild here.” “What is her name?” “Susan.” “That is my name, stranger. My twin brother and I used to sit in those chairs. I wish I were able to save some of these things for him. It is hard, isn’t it, stranger? But you and I will never be young again. The withered stalk never blooms any more. I’ve ’most got through.” She looked out over the sunny fields in the last glow of the Indian-summer days. “Stranger, you came home to spend Thanksgiving. I’ll have my next Thanksgiving in a better world than this. I did hope to see my twin brother once more, but that can never be. The sun that goes down will find me a burden to the world. There’s the old clock; they’re going to sell that, too. It struck on the day that I was born, and at all the weddings and funerals and Thanksgiving days. Are you going to buy that, too? I wish you would. I have a good feeling for you,—somehow I’m drawn towards you. I feel as though you felt for me. I’ve wound that clock myself nigh on to sixty years.”