That was three or four days ago, and Thirza had remained in the old house with Jane, who had kindly proffered her services and the solace of her companionship. There had been little to do in the house, and that little was soon done, and now the question of what she was to do with her new acquisition was looming up before her, and assuming truly colossal proportions. She was thinking of it now as she stood there with the wistful look upon her face, almost wishing that Aunt Abigail had left the farm to old Jabez Higgins, a fourth or fifth cousin by marriage, who had dutifully appeared at the funeral, with a look as if he had that within which passed showing, and doubtless he had, for he turned green and blue when the will was read, and drove off soon after at a tearing pace.
Jane, having condescended to perform the operation of washing up the two plates, cups, etc., which their evening meal had brought into requisition, entered presently, knitting in hand, and seated herself with much emphasis in a low wooden chair near the window. She was an erect and angular person, with an aggressive air of independence about her, a kind of "just-as-good-as-you-are" expression, which seemed to challenge the observer to dispute it at his peril. She took up the first stitch on her needle, fixed her sharp eyes upon Thirza, and, as if in answer to her thoughts, opened on her as follows:
"Ye haint made up yer mind what ye're a-goin' ter dew, hev ye?"
Thirza slowly shook her head, without looking around.
"It's kind o' queer now how things does work a-round. There you was a-workin' an' a-slavin' in that old mill, day in an' day out, only a week ago, an' now you can jest settle right down on yer own place an' take things easy."
Thirza vaguely wondered why Aunt Abigail had never "taken things easy."
"I shouldn't wonder a mite," went on Jane, with increasing animation, "I shouldn't wonder a single mite if you should git a husband, after all!"
Thirza's pale face flushed, and she made an involuntary gesture of impatience with one shoulder.
"Oh, ye needn't twist around so," said the undaunted spinster, dryly. "Ye ain't no chicken, laws knows, but ye needn't give up all hopes. Ye're twenty-five if ye're a day, but that ain't nothin' when a woman's got a farm worth three thousand dollars."