the bickering of a pair of wrens in the blackberry vines outside, and the scurry of a rat that scampered across the cellar floor and plunged into his hole in a corner. This served to draw her attention to her surroundings.
"SHE TOOK UP HER BURDEN OF BLANKETS AND BOTTLE AND PIE, AND TRUDGED ON DEEPER INTO THE SHELTERING LABYRINTH OF CORN."
In an opposite bin lay some sorry-looking potatoes, with long, ghostly white sprouts and a winding-sheet of cobwebs. Near the center of the earth floor stood a battered old sheet-iron stove, with some rusty joints of pipe rising shakily to the thatched roof, ten feet above. The hired men had set it up during the cold snap in March, and built a fire in it to keep themselves warm while they cut potatoes for seeding. A dozen matches and a clay pipe half full of burnt tobacco lay on its hearth, forgotten.
Mrs. Spencer felt a little light-headed when she stood up, and thus was brought to remember that she had eaten nothing since noon of the preceding day. She looked about for the pie and bottle of milk. The latter was intact, but the former had vanished, leaving only its tin plate as tangible evidence that it had existed. Two little, knowing, exultant eyes were shining up from the rathole in the corner. Mrs. Spencer looked troubled.
"Well"—a long, quivering breath—" I cert'nly said I wished I was dead, but slow starvation is a little more'n I bargained for."
She spoke aloud and shrunk from the sound of her voice, it was so shut-in and sepulchral. She turned to the door and strove now with all her strength to push it open, but it withstood the onslaught without a tremor.
She desisted at length, and sat down on an upturned apple-box, exhausted and gasping for breath. The place was stifling. Oh for a breath of pure, sweet air! Her outraged lungs seemed burning in her breast, and her mouth and throat were parched. She opened the bottle of milk, and took a por-
