When she woke in the morning, she remembered nothing of Betty's
undressing and putting her to bed. The dreadful day that was gone
seemed only a dreadful dream, that had left a pain behind it. But when
she went out, she found that yesterday would not stay amongst her
dreams. Brownie's stall was empty. The horses were all gone, and many
of the cattle. Those that remained looked like creatures forgotten. The
pigs were gone, and most of the poultry. Two or three favourite hens
were left, which auntie was going to take with her. But of all the
living creatures she had loved, not one had been kept for Annie. Her
life grew bitter with the bitterness of death.
In the afternoon, her aunt came up to her room, where she sat in
tearful silence, and telling her that she was going to take her into
the town, proceeded, without further explanation, to put all her little
personal effects into an old hair-trunk, which Annie called her own.
Along with some trifles that lay about the room, she threw into the
bottom of the box about a dozen of old books, which had been on the
chest of drawers since long before Annie could remember. She, poor
child, let her do as she pleased, and asked no questions; for the
shadow in which she stood was darkening, and she did not care what came
next.
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