From her dormer window, Anna Barly peered out at the wet, gray morning. The ground was sopping, the trees black with the night's drenching. In the orchard a sparrow sang an uncertain song; and she heard the comfortable drip, drip, drip from the eaves. It was damp and fresh at the window; the breeze, cold and fragrant after rain, made her shiver. She drew her wrapper closer about her throat, and sat staring out across the sodden lawn, with idle thoughts for company.

She thought that she was young, and that the world was old: that rain belonged to youth. Old age should sit in the sun, but youth was best of all in bad weather. "There's no telling where you are in the rain. And there's no one spying, for every one's indoors, keeping dry." Yes, youth is quite a person in the rain.

With slim, lazy fingers, she began to braid her long, fair hair. It seemed to her that folks were always peering and prying, to make sure that every one else was like themselves. "You're doing different than what I did," they said.

Anna wanted to "do different." Yet she was without courage or wisdom. And because she was sulky and heedless, Mrs. Ploughman called her Sara Barly's rebellious daughter. As Mrs. Ploughman belonged to the Methodist side of the town, Mrs. Tomkins was usually ready to disagree with her. But on this occasion, all Mrs. Tomkins could think to say, was: "Well, that's queer."

"But what's she got to be rebellious over?" she asked, peering brightly at Mrs. Ploughman.

"Perhaps," said Mrs. Ploughman, "she's sorry she wasn't born a boy."

"Well," cried Mrs. Tomkins, "I never heard of such a thing."

"There's lots you never heard of, Mrs. Tomkins," said Mrs. Ploughman.

"And plenty I never hope to hear," said Mrs. Tomkins promptly. "My life!"

After breakfast, Anna helped her mother with the housework. She took a hand in making the beds, and put her own room in order by tumbling everything into the closet and shutting the door. Then she went into the kitchen to help with the lunch. When Mrs. Barly saw her dreaming over the carrots, she asked:

"What are you gaping at now?"

"Nothing."

Then Mrs. Barly grew vexed. "You're not feeble-minded, I hope," she said.

"No, I'm not," said Anna.

"I'm glad of that," said Mrs. Barly.

When Anna said that she was not thinking of anything, she believed that she was telling the truth. But as a matter of fact, she was thinking of Thomas Frye. She wanted him to be in love with her, although she said to herself: "I am not in love with any one." Sometimes she thought that her heart was buried in France, with Noel Ploughman. However, she was mistaken. The tear she dropped in secret over his death, was for her own youth, out of her timid, clumsy, sweet-and-sour feelings.

In the afternoon she went for a walk. The rain, starting again after breakfast, had stopped, but the sky was still overcast, the air damp and searching. From the trees overhead as she passed, icy drops rained down upon her; she felt the silence all about her, and saw, from the rises, the gray hills, the rolling mist, and the low clouds, trailing above the woods, now light, now dark.

She was disappointed because life was no different than it was. She had hoped to find it as delightful as in those happy days before the war, when she played at kissing games and twined dandelion wreaths in her hair. But now it did not amuse her to play at post-office; she was sad because she was no longer able to be gay. As she passed the little cottage belonging to Mrs. Wicket, she thought to herself: "Yes, you've seen something of life. But not what I want to see, exactly. Look at you." Like Mrs. Grumble, she believed that Mrs. Wicket had nothing more to live for. "There you are," she said, "and there you'll be. Life doesn't mean even as much as a hayride, so far as you're concerned.

"You, God," she cried, "put something in my way, just once."

At that moment Juliet, who had been peeking out from behind the house, came skipping down the path to the road. As she drew near, her progress became slower; finally she stood still, and balanced herself on one leg, like a stork.

"Hello," she said. Then she looked up and down the road, to see what there was to talk about.

"I have a little house Mr. Jeminy made me out of boxes," she said at last.

"No," said Anna.

"Well, that's a fact," said Juliet, who had once heard Mr. Frye say,
"Well, that's a fact," to Mr. Crabbe.

"My goodness," said Anna, "isn't that elegant?" And she looked down at
Juliet, who was staring solemnly up at her.

"Yes, it is," said Juliet.

"What were you doing," asked Anna, "when I came along?"

"I was playing going to Milford," said Juliet. "Do you want to play with me?"

It seemed to Juliet that playing was something for any one to do.

Anna began to laugh. She had a mind to say, "Do you think I'm as little as you are?" But instead, she found herself thinking, "Oh, my, wouldn't it be fun."

"Why," she cried, "I declare, I do want to play with you."

"All right," said Juliet. And she turned soberly back to the barn, behind the house. But Anna sat down in the grass. "Just you wait," she said, "till I get my shoes and stockings off. I'm going to play proper."

Presently their happy voices, linked in laughter, rose from behind the house, where Juliet was showing Anna how to play store. She tied her apron around her little belly, and came forward rubbing her hands. "Would you like some nice licorice?" she asked. "Everything's very dear."

When she was tired of playing store, she began to imitate old Mrs. Tomkins, the carpenter's wife. "This is the way to have the rheumatism," she said. And she hopped around on one foot.

After they were through playing, they sat quietly together in the hay, in the barn, without anything more to say. Anna was warm and happy; she wanted to hug Juliet, to hold her tight, to rock up and down with her. "There," she thought, "if I only had one like her."

"What are you thinking about?" she asked, to tease her.

"I was just thinking," said Juliet, "it's fun to play with people."

Anna felt her heart give a sudden twist. "Why, you dear, odd little thing," she cried. And taking the child in her arms, she covered the tiny head with kisses. But Juliet drew away.

"I'm not little," she said. "I'm old."

"So am I old," said Anna. She felt the joy run out of her; it left her empty. "I expect everybody in the world is old," she said. She watched her hands move about in the hay like great spiders.

"Is it fun to be old, do you think?" asked Juliet.

"I don't know," said Anna. "I don't expect it is, much."

"Mother is old," said Juliet. "What do old people do?"

Anna looked out through the barn door across the wet fields, the drenched hillsides, shrouded in mist. "I don't know," she said. And she got up to go home.

"Well, good-by," said Juliet.

Just then Mrs. Wicket came in from the road, with a basket on her arm. When she saw Anna standing in front of the barn she grew pink and confused. For she thought that Anna had come to call on her. "Good afternoon," she said. "I was out. I'm real sorry. Won't you come in?"

"Oh, no," said Anna. "I was going on . . . I only stopped for a minute. . . ."

And without another word she ran down the path, and out of the gate. Mrs. Wicket stood looking after her in silence. Then, with a sigh, she turned, and went indoors. But Anna ran and ran until she was tired. As she ran she kept saying to herself, over and over, "I won't be like that, I won't, I won't."

It seemed to her as though she were running away from Hillsboro itself, running away from Mrs. Wicket, from her mother, from Thomas Frye, from Anna Barly, from everything she wouldn't be. . . .

"I won't," she cried, "I won't, I won't, I won't, I won't."

"Never."

Mr. Jeminy, who was seated on his coat by the side of the road, got up with a smile. "Well, Anna Barly," he said.

"Ak," she whispered, clapping both hands to her mouth, "how you scared me." She could feel her heart beating with fright; her lips trembled, her eyes filled with tears. She stood staring at Mr. Jeminy, who stared gravely back at her. "Are you going to run away from me, too?" he asked, at last.

"No," said Anna. Then, all at once, she burst out crying. "I can't help it," she cried, between her sobs. "I can't help it. Don't look at me."

"No," said Mr. Jeminy, "I won't." And he gazed up at the tree tops, dark and sharp against the cold, gray sky.

Anna cried herself out. Then pale and ashamed, she started home again with Mr. Jeminy. "I don't know what got into me," she said. "I don't know what you'll think."

"I think," declared Mr. Jeminy, looking up at the sky, "I think—why, I think this wet weather will pass, Anna Barly. Yes, to-morrow will be cold and clear."

Anna did not answer him. She was tired; she had played, she had cried, now she wanted to rest.

In Frye's General Store, Mr. Frye and Mr. Crabbe were disputing a game of checkers. They sat opposite each other, stared at the checkerboard, and stroked their chins. Farmer Barly stood watching them. He puffed on his pipe, and nodded his head at every move. But all the while he was thinking about Anna. "Pretty near time she was settling down," he thought.

Mr. Frye jumped over two, and leaned back in his chair with a satisfied smile. The hops of his own men put him into the best of humor. It was not that he wanted to win; he only wanted to do all the jumping. "Let me do the taking," he would have said, "and you can do the winning." When Mr. Crabbe hopped over three in a row, Mr. Frye became gloomy. He felt that Mr. Crabbe was getting all the pleasure. "You're too spry for me," he said. "You're like a flea. Well. . . ."

"It's your turn, Mr. F.," said Mr. Crabbe.

Mr. Frye looked at the board with distaste. There were no more jumps for him to make. He pushed a round black checker forward.

"There you are," he said.

"Here I go," declared Mr. Crabbe. And he began hopping again.

Mr. Frye shook his head. "I don't know as I'm feeling very good to-day," he told Farmer Barly.

As he was speaking, Anna Barly entered the store, on her way home.
Thomas Frye, who was behind the counter, came forward to meet her.
When she saw him, her cheeks, which were pale, grew red. "He can see I
was crying," she thought. "Well, I don't care. I hate him. What did
I stop for?"

She remembered that her mother had wanted a spool of white cotton.
"Number eleven," she said.

When she saw her father and Mr. Frye in the corner, she grew sulkier than ever. "They're just laying to settle me down," she thought. And turning to hide her face, still stained with tears, she made believe to wave to some one, out the window.

Mr. Crabbe took another man. "Tsck," said Mr. Frye; "maybe I'd better go and see what Anna wants. Thomas don't appear to know what he's about."

"Leave them be," said Mr. Crabbe, "leave them be." And he winked first at Mr. Barly, and then at Mr. Frye. "Don't go spoiling things," he said.

Mr. Frye allowed his mouth to droop in a thin smile. "Young people are slow to-day," he remarked. "They act like they had something on their minds. Green fruit . . . slow to ripe. In my time we went at it smarter." And he looked thoughtfully at Anna Barly. He saw her in the form of acres of land, live stock, farm buildings, and money in the bank. "Molasses," he thought; "yes, sir, molasses. Maple sugar." But when he looked at his son Thomas, he frowned. "Go on," he wanted to say, "go on, you slowpoke."

Farmer Barly also frowned at Thomas Frye. He felt that he was being hurried. "She's well enough where she is," he thought. "She's young yet. A year or two more . . ."

"Well," said Mr. Crabbe, "I look forward to the day." And he waved his hand kindly in the air. "It's your move, Mr. F."

Mr. Frye arose, and walked toward the door, where Thomas was bidding
Anna good-by. "See you to-night," Thomas whispered; "heh, Anna?"

"Please yourself," said Anna. And off she went, without looking at Mr. Frye, who had come to speak to her. When she was gone, Mr. Frye gave his son a keen glance. In it was both curiosity and malice. But Thomas turned away. It seemed to him that women must have been easier to understand when his father was young. For no one could understand them now.

While the storekeeper's back was turned, Mr. Crabbe rearranged the checkerboard. He took up two of Mr. Frye's men and put them in his pocket. Then he winked at Mr. Barly, as though to say: "I'm just a leetle too smart for him."

Farmer Barly winked back. It amused him to have Mr. Frye beaten unfairly. Mr. Frye wanted to get his daughter away from him. "Well," he said in his mind, to Mr. Frye, "just go easy. Just go easy, Mr. Frye." And he winked again at Mr. Crabbe. "That's right," he said, "give it to him."

When Mr. Jeminy left Anna, at the edge of the village, he went to call on Grandmother Ploughman. He found her in the company of old Mrs. Crabbe, who had brought her knitting over, for society's sake. Mrs. Ploughman received him with quiet dignity, due to a sense of the wrong she had suffered, for which she blamed Mrs. Wicket, and the Democratic Party. Mr. Ploughman, she often said, had been a good Republican all his life. Unfortunately, he was dead; otherwise, things would have been different.

It seemed to her that the country was being run by a set of villains. "The world is in a bad way," she declared. "I don't know what we're coming to." And an expression of bleak satisfaction illuminated her face, wrinkled with age.

"Yes," said Mr. Jeminy, "these are unhappy times. I am afraid we are leaving behind us a difficult task for those who follow. They had a right to expect better things of us, Mrs. Ploughman."

"I've not left anything behind," said Mrs. Ploughman decidedly; "not yet."

"I should hope not," ejaculated Mrs. Crabbe. "No."

"It's the young," said Mrs. Ploughman, "who get the old into trouble. Nothing ever suits them until they're in mischief; and then it's up to their elders to pull them out again. I know, for I've seen it, father and son."

"It is the old," said Mr. Jeminy, "who get the young into trouble."

"Is it, indeed?" said Mrs. Ploughman.

"Well, I don't believe it." And she gave Mr. Jeminy a bright, peaked look.

"Then," she continued, "when you've done for them, year in and year out, off they go, and that's the end of it."

"Ah, yes," croaked Mrs. Crabbe; "off they go."

"If it isn't one thing," said Mrs. Ploughman, "it's another. Trouble and death—that's a woman's lot in this world, like the Good Book says."

"Death is the end of everything," remarked Mrs. Crabbe.

"I'm not afraid to die," Mrs. Ploughman declared. "There's things to do the other side of the grave, same as here. And it's a joy to do them, in the light of the Lord. I can tell you, Mrs. Crabbe, I won't be sorry to go. My folks are waiting there for me." Her voice trembled, and she rocked up and down to compose herself. "He needn't try to mix me up," she thought to herself; "not in my own home. No."

"Then," said Mr. Jeminy, "you believe in an after life, Mrs. Ploughman?"

"Yes," said Mrs. Ploughman firmly, directing her remarks to Mrs. Crabbe, "I do. I believe there's a life hereafter, when our sorrows will be repaid us. There weren't all those hearts broke for nothing, Mrs. Crabbe, nor for what's going on here now, with strikes, and famine, and bloody murders."

"That's real edifying, Mrs. Ploughman," said Mrs. Crabbe, "real edifying. Yes," she exclaimed with energy, "these are terrible times. Now they give me tea without sugar in it. For there's no sugar to be had. Well, I won't drink it. I spit it out, when nobody's looking."

And she plied her needles with vigor, to show what she thought of such an arrangement.

"As I was saying," said Mrs. Ploughman, "it's the young who get the old into trouble. And artful folk, who'd ought to know better, with the life they've had. I've had no peace in this life. But I'll have it hereafter."

At this reflection upon Mrs. Wicket, Mr. Jeminy rose to go. "You are right," he said; "no one will disturb you." And he went home to Mrs. Grumble.

"Where have you been all day?" she demanded.

Mr. Jeminy smiled. He knew that Mrs. Grumble thought he had been spending the afternoon at Mrs. Wicket's. "I have been to call on Mrs. Ploughman," he said. "There I met old Mrs. Crabbe."

Then Mrs. Grumble hurried out into the garden to pick a mess of young beans for supper, because Mr. Jeminy liked them better than squash. The bowl of squash she returned to the ice box. "I'll eat it myself, to-morrow," she thought.

"Supper will be a little late," she said to Mr. Jeminy, "because the stove won't draw in wet weather."