They ain't quite got to going without their victuals." Henry rose.

"I'd admire to get the corn," said he, and went around the house towards the kitchen.

Left to herself, Sylvia let her work fall in her lap.

She stared at the front yard and the street beyond and the opposite house, dimly seen between waving boughs, and her face was the face of despair.

Little, commonplace, elderly countenance that it seemed, it was strengthened into tragedy by the terrible stress of some concealed misery of the spirit.