"But this painting won't get her a living, when we're dead and gone,
Nathan."
"I don't know, picters are the fashion now-a-days—who knows but she may yet have one hung up at the Academy."
A grim smile came to aunt Hannah's face. "You may be right, Nathan," she said. "More strange things than that have happened in our time, so I'll just do as you think best, but she does waste a good deal of time and candle-light with her paints and things."
"She's brought more light into the house than she will ever take away, heaven bless her," answered uncle Nathan.
Just then, Mary came up with her basket. Exercise and the cold autumn air had left her cheeks rosy with color; she looked beautiful in the eyes of her benefactors.
"Now," she said, pouring down her apples, "had not you better go into the cellar, uncle Nathan, and get the apple-bin ready? the air feels like frost."
"They're not going into our cellar this year," said aunt Hannah, looking up into the branches above her, as if she feared to encounter the inquiring eyes of her companions; "we must do without winter apples; I've sold the whole crop."
"Do without winter apples," exclaimed uncle Nathan, with a downcast look, "is it so bad as that sister?"
"Apples are high down in York this fall," she answered, evasively.
Mary turned away, sighing heavily, "Shall I never be able to help along?" she muttered to herself, and she fell into a train of thought that lasted till long after the apples were all gathered in a heap ready for the cart that was to carry them away.