"Hush, don't be silly," said Mary. "What need was there for fear?"
"Oh, let me alone, Mary. I assure you, if I had looked into his eyes again I should have fallen down," said the widow.
"Hannah," said Mary.
"Yes, Mary," said the widow.
"I have a secret to tell you," said she, and there was a tremor in her limbs and in her voice.
"Do not hesitate, Mary," said Hannah. "I will keep your secret, if my life were to depend upon it."
"I know well that you will, Hannah, but there is more for you to do for me than to keep my secret."
She stopped. Hannah did not speak.
"During part of my life, Hannah," said she, "I thought I would never marry."
"There isn't a very long part of your life spent yet," said Hannah.
"Short as it is, it has been full of grief lately," said Mary.
"I don't see that you have much cause for grief," said Hannah.
"My heart is wrung with grief," said she.
Then she spoke in a whisper to Hannah, and they spent a long time whispering. When they had finished whispering Mary went home, and Hannah went to bed. But not a wink of sleep fell upon either Mary or Hannah that night.
When Hannah got up in the morning she was very tired. When she meant to put her cap on her head she put it into her pocket. When she meant to put her shoe on her foot, she put it into the fire, as she would put a sod of turf. When she knelt down to say her prayers, she could not say a single word
