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The pod in Mrs. Barly's hand cracked with a pop, and trembled in the air, split open like the covers of a book. "I declare," she exclaimed, "I don't know what to think . . . well . . . wait . . . I suppose you want to be like Mrs. Wicket?" "No, I don't," said Anna. "Yes," said Mrs.
The haywagon crossed the first rise, south of the village. Below the road, a rocky field swept downward to the woods, pale green and silver in the moonlight; and beyond, far off and faint, rose Barly Hill, with Barly's lamp burning as bright for all the distance, as if it hung just over those trees, still, and faint with shadows. "See," said Anna, "there's our light."
The two hired men on Barly's farm rose in the dark and crept downstairs. By sun-up, Farmer Barly was after them, in his brown overalls; he came clumping into the barn, dusty with last year's hay, and peered about him in the yellow light. He opened the harness room, and took out harness for the farm wagons; he went to ask if the horses had been watered.
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."
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