Amy's hand trembled so that her milk began to trickle over the sides of her pail.
"That's what it meant, then, that dear, precious old fellow. He knew he was going to leave us, that First Day we spent at the farm. That was why his words in the meeting-house were so like a farewell. It is too bad! It must have broken his heart."
"No, it didn't. He didn't want to go, not a mite; but there wasn't no heart-break, not in sight. If there was, he kept it hid. But he went all round the place, into every shed and building, pointing out things that should be done, and being most particular about the flowers and garden. He told me to take care of everything just as if he was coming back to-morrow. But he'll never. He'll never."
"Israel, you shall not say that! He must come back!"
"Oh, he'll come, of course, one way: that's feet foremost. He's a sight feebler 'n he ever let on, an' this riotous livin' at York, what with balls and parties and wine suppers, he won't last long. They'll kill him out of hand amongst 'em."
"Oh, Israel, the idea of Adam Burn at 'balls and parties and wine suppers,' when he's so simple and sweet and abstemious. I don't believe he ever tasted wine during all his pure, beautiful life. I'm not worrying about that. It's the leaving the things he loved will hurt him so. Why couldn't Sarah Jane have left him in peace? O dear! O dear! This will be a fresh sorrow for mother."
"So I suppose. For all of us, too. It's going to be lonesome for me, I reckon. Though Mis' Boggs won't have so much to do. She wants to give up the job, an' go live with our son, Jim. But Sarah Jane told us to stay, an' so we'll have to."
"Is this dreadful woman who's spirited Adam away any kin to you?"
"Course not. But you needn't laugh. You don't know that lady. She's masterful, and she's rich—'rich as Cr[oe]sus,'—and don't know what to do with her money. When the old man was lookin' around an' chargin' me 'bout things, she broke in with: 'Oh, don't worry, father-in-law. The trumpery stuff isn't worth so much thought. I'm not a relic hunter, and let it go,' says she. Then he reminds her that he wanted it kept right for—Whew! I near let the secret out, didn't I? He told me he wrote you a letter. He gave it to you, didn't he? Well, if you'll carry the message for me, I won't climb 'Spite' hill this morning. There's a few things to fetch up in the open wagon, and I'll see your folks about hauling that muck. Good-by. The spirit's taken clean out of me. Twenty-five years me and him has lived together, and to part sudden like this. Twenty-five years by the clock, and a better man than him never trod the footstool."
With that Israel brought the mare around, and giving a mournful nod of his head drove dejectedly away.