"I do declare, what a nice day 't is, an' such pretty footin'!" said Mrs. Hand, with satisfaction. "Seems to me as if my feet went o' themselves; gener'lly I have to toil so when I walk that I can't enjoy nothin' when I get to a place."
"It's partly this beautiful bracin' air," said Abby Pendexter. "Sometimes such nice air comes just before a fall of snow. Don't it seem to make anybody feel young again and to take all your troubles away?"
Mrs. Hand was a comfortable, well-to-do soul, who seldom worried about anything, but something in her companion's tone touched her heart, and she glanced sidewise and saw a pained look in Abby Pendexter's thin face. It was a moment for confidence.
"Why, you speak as if something distressed your mind, Abby," said the elder woman kindly.
"I ain't one that has myself on my mind as a usual thing, but it does seem now as if I was goin' to have it very hard," said Abby. "Well, I 've been anxious before."
"Is it anything wrong about your property?" Mrs. Hand ventured to ask.
"Only that I ain't got any," answered. Abby, trying to speak gayly.
"'T was all I could do to pay my last quarter's rent, twelve dollars.
I sold my hens, all but this one that had run away at the time, an' now
I 'm carryin' her up to Aunt Cynthy, roasted just as nice as I know
how."
"I thought you was carrying somethin'," said Mrs. Hand, in her usual tone. "For me, I 've got a couple o' my mince pies. I thought the old lady might like 'em; one we can eat for our dinner, and one she shall have to keep. But were n't you unwise to sacrifice your poultry, Abby? You always need eggs, and hens don't cost much to keep."
"Why, yes, I shall miss 'em," said Abby; "but, you see, I had to do every way to get my rent-money. Now the shop 's shut down I have n't got any way of earnin' anything, and I spent what little I 've saved through the summer."
"Your aunt Cynthy ought to know it an' ought to help you," said Mrs. Hand. "You 're a real foolish person, I must say. I expect you do for her when she ought to do for you."