He advanced poor Sylvia meagre moneys on her little lands, and he told nobody.

There came a day when he gave her the last dollar upon her New England soil, full of old plough-ridges and dried weeds and stones.
Sylvia went home with it in the pocket of her quilted petticoat under her dress skirt.

She kept feeling of it to see if it were safe as she walked along.

The snow was quite deep, the road was not well broken out, and she plodded forward with bent head, her black skirt gathering a crusty border of snow.
She had to pass Richard Alger's house, but she never looked up.

It was six o'clock, and quite dark; it had been dark when she set out at five.