"I don't believe father has gone yet, I heard his step down-stairs, I'll
run down to say good-bye again and see if he wants anything, and go down
cellar and get me some apples to munch on to keep me from being lonesome.
Father will take the horses and they will not need to be fed, and I told
Morris I could feed the two cows and the hens myself, so he need not come
home just for that. But father is calling me.
"Afternoon. Is it years and _years_ since I began this letter? My hair
has not turned white and I am not an old woman; the ink and paper look
fresh, too, fresher than the old bit of yellow paper that mother keeps so
preciously, that has written on it the invitation to her mother's wedding
that somebody returned to her. How slowly I am coming to it! But I want
to keep you in suspense. I am up in the master's chamber again, sitting
on the hearth before a snapping fire, and I haven't written one word
since I wrote you that father was calling me.
"He did call me, and I ran down and found that he wanted an extra
shawl for mother; for it might be colder to-morrow, or it might be a
snow-storm. I stood at the window and saw him pass and listened to the
jingling of his bells until they were out of hearing, and then I lighted
a bit of a candle (ah, me, that it was not longer) and went down cellar
for my apples. I opened one barrel and then another until I found the
ones I wanted, the tender green ones that you used to like; I filled my
basket and, just then hearing the back door open and a step in the entry
over my head, I turned quickly and pushed my candlestick over, and, of
course, that wee bit of light sputtered out.
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