"Hannah," said uncle Nathan, the moment they were alone, "what has happened; Anna's boy, is it anything about him?"
"His father is sick, Nathan, very sick, and will starve if we don't come to his help a little."
"And this is why we are to have no winter apples in the cellar, I'm sure it's of no consequence. I've thought a good while that old people like us have no use for apples, we hain't got the teeth to eat them, you know. But then Mary is so fond of them, supposing we take out a few just for her, you know."
"No," said aunt Hannah, sorrowfully, "she can do without apples, but they cannot do without bread; besides she wouldn't touch them if she knew."
"No, no, I'm sure she wouldn't—but isn't there anything I could give up: there's the cider, I used to be very fond of ginger and cider, winter evenings, but somehow without apples, it wouldn't seem exactly nat'ral: supposing you save a few apples for her without letting her know, and sell the cider. It would be a good example to set to the young men, you know, these temperance times?"
"No," answered Hannah, with unusual energy, "not a comfort shall you give up; I will work my fingers to the bone first."
"But," said uncle Nathan, rather timidly, as if he ventured a proposition that was likely to be ill received. "Why not let the poor fellow come here?—it would not cost much to keep him at the Homestead, and Mary is such a dear little nurse."
Aunt Hannah did not receive this as he had expected, but with a slow wave of the head, "That can never be—I couldn't breathe under the same roof with them; don't mention it again, Nathan."
"I never will," said the old man, touched by the sad determination in her voice and manner, "only tell me what I can do."
"Nothing, only let me alone," was the reply, and taking up her empty basket, aunt Hannah went to work again.