"I thought perhaps the death of the old major would make a difference to you," said Nance. I knew by the mumbling sound that she was biting a thread.
"It does make a difference," said the Hempie, dreamily, "and it will make a greater difference before all be done!"
Nance was silent for a while. I knew she was hurt at her sister's lack of communicativeness. The rocking-chair was suddenly hitched sideways, and the stroking rose from fifty in the minute to about sixty or sixty-five, according, as it were, to the pressure on the boiler.
Still the Hempie did not speak a word.
The rocking-chair was doing a good seventy now—but it was a spurt, and could not last.
"Elizabeth," said Nance, suddenly, "I did not think you could be so mean. I never behaved like this to you."
"No?" said the Hempie, with serene interrogation, but did not move, so far as I could make out. The rocking-chair ceased. There was a pause, painful even to me in my little den. The strain on the other side of the wall must have been enormous.
When Nance spoke it was in a curiously altered voice. It sounded even pleading. I wish the Hempie would teach me her secret.
"Who is it?—tell me, Hempie," said Nance, softly.
I did not catch the answer, though obviously one was given. But the next moment I heard the unbalanced clatter of the abandoned rocker, and then Nance's voice saying: "No, it is impossible!"