As she lingered in the darkness, her weary head heavy against the window frame, she wrestled with the future and conscientiously tried to reach some conclusion. She was eager to do what was right. Had Ellen been sick or feeble, as she had been led to suppose, she would not have questioned leaving her, querulous and tyrannical though she was. But this woman was all-sufficient and needed no one. Why should she bury her life in this cruel, rancorous atmosphere? Would her own sweetness survive the daily companionship of such a person; rather, dominated by Ellen’s powerful character, might she not become inoculated by its poison and herself harden into a being as merciless and self-centered? So deep was her reverie that she did not hear the tap upon the 90 door. A second afterward the knob turned softly and her aunt entered.
“You ain’t in bed?” she inquired in a high-pitched whisper.
“No.”
“That’s lucky, I hoped you wouldn’t be. Come in my room quick. I want you should see what the Howes are doin’. They’re out fussin’ again over that thing they buried this afternoon.” Ellen was obviously excited.
Sure enough! From the window that looked toward the Howe farm, three figures could be seen in the silvery light, grouped together beneath the old linden. They were armed, as before, with shovels, and all of them were digging.
“It doesn’t look as if they were filling in the hole,” Lucy remarked, interested in spite of herself. “They seem to be digging up what they buried.”
“That’s just what I thought,” responded Ellen.
“Yes, they are shoveling the dirt out again,” declared the girl.
For quite a while the two stood watching the frenzied movements of their neighbors.