Sylvia nodded assent.
Jonathan Leavitt had had a fear lest Sylvia might make a disturbance about going.

Many a time had it taken hours for him to induce a poor woman to leave her own door-stone; and when at length they had set forth, it was to an accompaniment of shrill, piteous lamentations, so strained and persistent that they seemed scarcely human, and more like the cries of a scared cat being hauled away from her home.
Everybody on the road had turned to look after the sled, and Jonathan Leavitt had driven on, looking straight ahead, his face screwed hard, lashing now and then his old horse, with a gruff shout.

Now he felt relieved and grateful to Sylvia for going so quietly.

He was disposed to be very friendly to her.
"You'd better keep your rockin'-chair kind of stiddy," he said, when they turned the corner into the new road, and the chair oscillated like an uneasy berth at sea.
Sylvia sat up straight in the chair.

She had on her best bonnet and shawl, and her worked lace veil over her face.