"I think the best plan would be for her to go away again," she added.
The Squire looked at her wistfully.

"Do you think it would, Abigail ?" "I think she would brighten right up, the way she did before." "She did brighten up, didn't she ?" said the Squire, with a sigh.
"Well, maybe you're right, Abigail, but you've got to go with her this time.

The child isn't going away, looking as she does now, without her mother." So it happened that, a week or two later, Jerome, going to his work, met the coach again, and this time had a glimpse of Abigail Merritt's little, sharply alert face beside her daughter's pale, flower-like droop of profile.

He had not been in the shop long before his uncle's wife came with the news.

She stood in the doorway, quite filling it with her voluminosity of skirts and softly palpitating bulk, holding a little fluttering shawl together under her chin.
"They've gone out West, to Ohio, to Mis' Merritt's cousin, Mary Jane Anstey, that was; she married rich, years ago, and went out there to live, and Abigail 'ain't seen her since.