Nancy

Nancy heard the shot, then another, and came to the window to witness the third and final bullet be fired into her husband.

How often poor Nancy Nelson heard those words, and how they cut her to the heart.

Nancy glanced through the open barn door toward the house, and came a step nearer to the old man.

"Yes, ma'am," sighed Nancy, picking up the half-dried pitcher—now so cold it must be rinsed again.

What an ordeal this was getting to be, and how lucky was Nancy, comfortably seated before the fire!

Nancy was weaving at the window—Mary had taught her, and she gave the impression, sitting there, of having looms in her blood.