Читать книгу From the Land of the Snow-Pearls: Tales from Puget Sound - Ella Higginson - Страница 8

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“Huhy! Huhy! Pleg take that muley cow! Huhy!”

“What she doin’, maw?”

“Why, she’s just a-holdin’ her head over the bars, an’ a-bawlin’! Tryin’ to get into the little correll where her ca’f is! I wish paw ’d of done as I told him an’ put her into the up meadow. If there’s anything on earth I abominate it’s to hear a cow bawl.”

Mrs. Bridges gathered up several sticks of wood from the box in the corner by the stove, and going out into the yard, threw them with powerful movements of her bare arm in the direction of the bars. The cow lowered her hornless head and shook it defiantly at her, but held her ground. Isaphene stood in the open door, laughing. She was making a cake. She beat the mixture with a long-handled tin spoon while watching the fruitless attack. She had reddish brown hair that swept away from her brow and temples in waves so deep you could have lost your finger in any one of them; and good, honest gray eyes, and a mouth that was worth kissing. She wore a blue cotton gown that looked as if it had just left the ironing-table. Her sleeves were rolled to her elbows.

“It don’t do any good, maw,” she said, as her mother returned with a defeated air. “She just bawls an’ shakes her head right in your face. Look at her!”

“Oh, I don’t want to look at her. It seems to me your paw might of drove her to the up meadow, seein’s he was goin’ right up by there. It ain’t like as if he’d of had to go out o’ his way. It aggravates me offul.”

She threw the last stick of wood into the box, and brushed the tiny splinters off her arm and sleeves.

“Well, I guess I might as well string them beans for dinner before I clean up.”

She took a large milkpan, filled with beans, from the table and sat down near the window.

“Isaphene,” she said, presently, “what do you say to an organ, an’ a horse an’ buggy? A horse with some style about him, that you could ride or drive, an’ that ’u’d always be up when you wanted to go to town!”

“What do I say?” The girl turned and looked at her mother as if she feared one of them had lost her senses; then she returned to her cake-beating with an air of good-natured disdain.

“Oh, you can smile an’ turn your head on one side, but you’ll whistle another tune before long—or I’ll miss my guess. Isaphene, I’ve been savin’ up chicken an’ butter money ever since we come to Puget Sound; then I’ve always got the money for the strawberry crop, an’ for the geese an’ turkeys, an’ the calves, an’ so on. Your paw’s been real good about such things.”

“I don’t call it bein’ good,” said Isaphene. “Why shouldn’t he let you have the money? You planted, an’ weeded, an’ picked the strawberries; an’ you fed an’ set the chickens, an’ gethered the eggs; an’ you’ve had all the tendin’ of the geese an’ turkeys an’ calves—to say nothin’ of the cows bawlin’ over the bars,” she added, with a sly laugh. “I’d say you only had your rights when you get the money for such things.”

“Oh, yes, that’s fine talk.” Mrs. Bridges nodded her head with an air of experience. “But it ain’t all men-folks that gives you your rights; so when one does, I say he deserves credit.”

“Well, I wouldn’t claim anybody’d been good to me just because he give me what I’d worked for an’ earned. Now, if he’d give you all the money from the potato patch every year, or the hay meadow, or anything he’d done all the workin’ with himself—I’d call that good in him. He never done anything like that, did he?”

“No, he never,” replied Mrs. Bridges, testily. “An’ what’s more, he ain’t likely to—nor any other man I know of! If you get a man that gives you all you work for an’ earn, you’ll be lucky—with all your airs!”

“Well, I guess I’ll manage to get my rights, somehow,” said Isaphene, beginning to butter the cake-pan.

“Somebody’s comin’!” exclaimed her mother, lowering her voice to a mysterious whisper.

“Who is it?” Isaphene stood up straight, with that little quick beating of mingled pleasure and dismay that the cry of company brings to country hearts.

“I can’t see. I don’t want to be caught peepin’. I can see it’s a woman, though; she’s just passin’ the row of hollyhocks. Can’t you stoop down an’ peep? She won’t see you ’way over there by the table.”

Isaphene stooped and peered cautiously through the wild cucumber vines that rioted over the kitchen window.

“Oh, it’s Mis’ Hanna!”

“My goodness! An’ the way this house looks! You’ll have to bring her out here ’n the kitchen, too. I s’pose she’s come to spend the day—she’s got her bag with her, ain’t she?”

“Yes. What’ll we have for dinner? I ain’t goin’ to cut this cake for her. I want this for Sund’y.”

“Why, we’ve got corn beef to boil, an’ a head o’ cabbage; an’ these here beans; an’, of course, potatoes; an’ watermelon perserves. An’ you can make a custerd pie. I guess that’s a good enough dinner for her. There! She’s knockin’. Open the door, can’t you? Well, if I ever! Look at that grease-spot on the floor!”

“Well, I didn’t spill it.”

“Who did, then, missy?”

“Well, I never.”

Isaphene went to the front door, returning presently with a tall, thin lady.

“Here’s Mis’ Hanna, maw,” she said, with the air of having made a pleasant discovery. Mrs. Bridges got up, greatly surprised, and shook hands with her visitor with exaggerated delight.

“Well, I’ll declare! It’s really you, is it? At last! Well, set right down an’ take off your things. Isaphene, take Mis’ Hanna’s things. My! ain’t it warm, walkin’?”

“It is so.” The visitor gave her bonnet to Isaphene, dropping her black mitts into it after rolling them carefully together. “But it’s always nice an’ cool in your kitchen.” Her eyes wandered about with a look of unabashed curiosity that took in everything. “I brought my crochet with me.”

“I’m glad you did. You’ll have to excuse the looks o’ things. Any news?”

“None perticular.” Mrs. Hanna began to crochet, holding the work close to her face. “Ain’t it too bad about poor, old Mis’ Lane?”

“What about her?” Mrs. Bridges snapped a bean-pod into three pieces, and looked at her visitor with a kind of pleased expectancy—as if almost any news, however dreadful, would be welcome as a relief to the monotony of existence. “Is she dead?”

“No, she ain’t dead; but the poor, old creature ’d better be. She’s got to go to the poor-farm, after all.”

There was silence in the big kitchen, save for the rasp of the crochet needle through the wool and the snapping of the beans. A soft wind came in the window and drummed with the lightest of touches on Mrs. Bridges’s temples. It brought all the sweets of the old-fashioned flower-garden with it—the mingled breaths of mignonette, stock, sweet lavender, sweet peas and clove pinks. The whole kitchen was filled with the fragrance. And what a big, cheerful kitchen it was! Mrs. Bridges contrasted it unconsciously with the poor-farm kitchen, and almost shivered, warm though the day was.

“What’s her childern about?” she asked, sharply.

“Oh, her childern!” replied Mrs. Hanna, with a contemptuous air. “What does her childern amount to, I’d like to know.”

“Her son’s got a good, comf’table house an’ farm.”

“Well, what if he has? He got it with his wife, didn’t he? An’ M’lissy won’t let his poor, old mother set foot inside the house! I don’t say she is a pleasant body to have about—she’s cross an’ sick most all the time, an’ childish. But that ain’t sayin’ her childern oughtn’t to put up with her disagreeableness.”

“She’s got a married daughter, ain’t she?”

“Yes, she’s got a married daughter.” Mrs. Hanna closed her lips tightly together and looked as if she might say something, if she chose, that would create a sensation.

“Well, ain’t she got a good enough home to keep her mother in?”

“Yes, she has. But she got her home along with her husband, an’ he won’t have the old soul any more ’n M’lissy would.”

There was another silence. Isaphene had put the cake in the oven. She knelt on the floor and opened the door very softly now and then, to see that it was not browning too fast. The heat of the oven had crimsoned her face and arms.

“Guess you’d best put a piece o’ paper on top o’ that cake,” said her mother. “It smells kind o’ burny like.”

“It’s all right, maw.”

Mrs. Bridges looked out the window.

“Ain’t my flowers doin’ well, though, Mis’ Hanna?”

“They are that. When I come up the walk I couldn’t help thinkin’ of poor, old Mis’ Lane.”

“What’s that got to do with her?” Resentment bristled in Mrs. Bridges’s tone and look.

Mrs. Hanna stopped crocheting, but held her hands stationary, almost level with her eyes, and looked over them in surprise at her questioner.

“Why, she ust to live here, you know.”

“She did! In this house?”

“Why, yes. Didn’t you know that? Oh, they ust to be right well off in her husband’s time. I visited here consid’rable. My! the good things she always had to eat. I can taste ’em yet.”

“Hunh! I’m sorry I can’t give you as good as she did,” said Mrs. Bridges, stiffly.

“Well, as if you didn’t! You set a beautiful table, Mis’ Bridges, an’, what’s more, that’s your reputation all over. Everybody says that about you.”

Mrs. Bridges smiled deprecatingly, with a slight blush of pleasure.

“They do, Mis’ Bridges. I just told you about Mis’ Lane because you’d never think it now of the poor, old creature. An’ such flowers as she ust to have on both sides that walk! Lark-spurs, an’ sweet-williams, an’ bach’lor’s-buttons, an’ mournin’-widows, an’ pumgranates, an’ all kinds. Guess you didn’t know she set out that pink cabbage-rose at the north end o’ the front porch, did you? An’ that hop-vine that you’ve got trained over your parlor window—set that out, too. An’ that row o’ young alders between here an’ the barn—she set ’em all out with her own hands; dug the holes herself, an’ all. It’s funny she never told you she lived here.”

“Yes, it is,” said Mrs. Bridges, slowly and thoughtfully.

“It’s a wonder to me she never broke down an’ cried when she was visitin’ here. She can’t so much as mention the place without cryin’.”

A dull red came into Mrs. Bridges’s face.

“She never visited here.”

“Never visited here!” Mrs. Hanna laid her crochet and her hands in her lap, and stared. “Why, she visited ev’rywhere. That’s how she managed to keep out o’ the poor-house so long. Ev’rybody was reel consid’rate about invitin’ her. But I expect she didn’t like to come here because she thought so much o’ the place.”

Isaphene looked over her shoulder at her mother, but the look was not returned. The beans were sputtering nervously into the pan.

“Ain’t you got about enough, maw?” she said. “That pan seems to be gettin’ hefty.”

“Yes, I guess.” She got up, brushing the strings off her apron, and set the pan on the table. “I’ll watch the cake now, Isaphene. You put the beans on in the pot to boil. Put a piece o’ that salt pork in with ’em. Better get ’em on right away. It’s pretty near eleven. Ain’t this oven too hot with the door shet?”

Then the pleasant preparations for dinner went on. The beans soon commenced to boil, and an appetizing odor floated through the kitchen. The potatoes were pared—big, white fellows, smooth and long—with a sharp, thin knife, round and round and round, each without a break until the whole paring had curled itself about Isaphene’s pretty arm almost to the elbow. The cabbage was chopped finely for the cold-slaw, and the vinegar and butter set on the stove in a saucepan to heat. Then Mrs. Bridges “set” the table, covering it first with a red cloth having a white border and fringe. In the middle of the table she placed an uncommonly large, six-bottled caster.

“I guess you’ll excuse a red tablecloth, Mis’ Hanna. The men-folks get their shirt-sleeves so dirty out in the fields that you can’t keep a white one clean no time.”

“I use red ones myself most of the time,” replied Mrs. Hanna, crocheting industriously. “It saves washin’. I guess poor Mis’ Lane’ll have to see the old place after all these years, whether she wants or not. They’ll take her right past here to the poor-farm.”

Mrs. Bridges set on the table a white plate holding a big square of yellow butter, and stood looking through the open door, down the path with its tall hollyhocks and scarlet poppies on both sides. Between the house and the barn some wild mustard had grown, thick and tall, and was now drifting, like a golden cloud, against the pale blue sky. Butterflies were throbbing through the air, and grasshoppers were crackling everywhere. It was all very pleasant and peaceful; while the comfortable house and barns, the wide fields stretching away to the forest, and the cattle feeding on the hillside added an appearance of prosperity. Mrs. Bridges wondered how she herself would feel—after having loved the place—riding by to the poor-farm. Then she pulled herself together and said, sharply:

“I’m afraid you feel a draught, Mis’ Hanna, a-settin’ so clost to the door.”

“Oh, my, no; I like it. I like lots o’ fresh air. Can’t get it any too fresh for me. If I didn’t have six childern an’ my own mother to keep, I’d take her myself.”

“Take who?” Mrs. Bridges’s voice rasped as she asked the question. Isaphene paused on her way to the pantry, and looked at Mrs. Hanna with deeply thoughtful eyes.

“Why, Mis’ Lane—who else?—before I’d let her go to the poor-farm.”

“Well, I think her childern ought to be made to take care of her!” Mrs. Bridges went on setting the table with brisk, angry movements. “That’s what I think about it. The law ought to take holt of it.”

“Well, you see the law has took holt of it,” said Mrs. Hanna, with a grim smile. “It seems a shame that there ain’t somebody in the neighborhood that ’u’d take her in. She ain’t much expense, but a good deal o’ trouble. She’s sick, in an’ out o’ bed, nigh onto all the time. My opinion is she’s been soured by all her troubles; an’ that if somebody ’u’d only take her in an’ be kind to her, her temper’ment ’u’d emprove up wonderful. She’s always mighty grateful for ev’ry little chore you do her. It just makes my heart ache to think o’ her a-havin’ to go to the poor-house!”

Mrs. Bridges lifted her head; all the softness and irresolution went out of her face.

“Well, I’m sorry for her,” she said, with an air of dismissing a disagreeable subject; “but the world’s full o’ troubles, an’ if you cried over all o’ them you’d be a-cryin’ all the time. Isaphene, you go out an’ blow that dinner-horn. I see the men-folks ’av’ got the horses about foddered. What did you do?” she cried out, sharply. “Drop a smoothin’-iron on your hand? Well, my goodness! Why don’t you keep your eyes about you? You’ll go an’ get a cancer yet!”

“I’m thinkin’ about buyin’ a horse an’ buggy,” she announced, with stern triumph, when the girl had gone out. “An’ an organ. Isaphene’s been wantin’ one most offul. I’ve give up her paw’s ever gettin’ her one. First a new harrow, an’ then a paten’ rake, an’ then a seed-drill—an’ then my mercy”—imitating a masculine voice—“he ain’t got any money left for silliness! But I’ve got some laid by. I’d like to see his eyes when he comes home an’ finds a bran new buggy with a top an’ all, an’ a horse that he can’t hetch to a plow, no matter how bad he wants to! I ain’t sure but I’ll get a phaeton.”

“They ain’t so strong, but they’re handy to get in an’ out of—’specially for old, trembly knees.”

“I ain’t so old that I’m trembly!”

“Oh, my—no,” said Mrs. Hanna, with a little start. “I was just thinkin’ mebbe sometimes you’d go out to the poor-farm an’ take poor, old Mis’ Lane for a little ride. It ain’t more’n five miles from here, is it? She ust to have a horse an’ buggy o’ her own. Somehow, I can’t get her off o’ my mind at all to-day. I just heard about her as I was a-startin’ for your house.”

The men came to the house. They paused on the back porch to clean their boots on the scraper and wash their hands and faces with water dipped from the rain-barrel. Their faces shone like brown marble when they came in.

It was five o’clock when Mrs. Hanna, with a sigh, began rolling the lace she had crocheted around the spool, preparatory to taking her departure.

“Well,” she said, “I must go. I had no idy it was so late. How the time does go, a-talkin’. I’ve had a right nice time. Just see how well I’ve done—crocheted full a yard since dinner-time! My! how pretty that hop-vine looks. It makes awful nice shade, too. I guess when Mis’ Lane planted it she thought she’d be settin’ under it herself to-day—she took such pleasure in it.”

The ladies were sitting on the front porch. It was cool and fragrant out there. The shadow of the house reached almost to the gate now. The bees had been drinking too many sweets—greedy fellows!—and were lying in the red poppies, droning stupidly. A soft wind was blowing from Puget Sound and turning over the clover leaves, making here a billow of dark green and there one of light green; it was setting loose the perfume of the blossoms, too, and sifting silken thistle-needles through the air. Along the fence was a hedge, eight feet high, of the beautiful ferns that grow luxuriantly in western Washington. The pasture across the lane was a tangle of royal color, being massed in with golden-rod, fire-weed, steeple-bush, yarrow, and large field-daisies; the cotton-woods that lined the creek at the side of the house were snowing. Here and there the sweet twin-sister of the steeple-bush lifted her pale and fluffy plumes; and there was one lovely, lavender company of wild asters.

Mrs. Bridges arose and followed her guest into the spare bedroom.

“When they goin’ to take her to the poor-farm?” she asked, abruptly.

“Day after to-morrow. Ain’t it awful? It just makes me sick. I couldn’t of eat a bite o’ dinner if I’d stayed at home, just for thinkin’ about it. They say the poor, old creature ain’t done nothin’ but cry an’ moan ever since she knowed she’d got to go.”

“Here’s your bag,” said Mrs. Bridges. “Do you want I should tie your veil?”

“No, thanks; I guess I won’t put it on. If I didn’t have such a big fam’ly an’ my own mother to keep, I’d take her in myself before I’d see her go to the poor-house. If I had a small fam’ly an’ plenty o’ room, I declare my conscience wouldn’t let me sleep nights.”

A deep red glow spread over Mrs. Bridges’s face.

“Well, I guess you needn’t to keep a-hintin’ for me to take her,” she said, sharply.

“You!” Mrs. Hanna uttered the word in a tone that was an unintentional insult; in fact, Mrs. Bridges affirmed afterward that her look of astonishment, and, for that matter, her whole air of dazed incredulity were insulting. “I never once thought o’ you,” she said, with an earnestness that could not be doubted.

“Why not o’ me?” demanded Mrs. Bridges, showing something of her resentment. “What you been talkin’ an’ harpin’ about her all day for, if you wasn’t hintin’ for me to take her in?”

“I never thought o’ such a thing,” repeated her visitor, still looking rather helplessly dazed. “I talked about it because it was on my mind, heavy, too; an’, I guess, because I wanted to talk my conscience down.”

Mrs. Bridges cooled off a little and folded her hands over the bedpost.

“Well, if you wasn’t hintin’,” she said, in a conciliatory tone, “it’s all right. You kep’ harpin’ on the same string till I thought you was; an’ it riles me offul to be hinted at. I’ll take anything right out to my face, so’s I can answer it, but I won’t be hinted at. But why”—having rid herself of the grievance she at once swung around to the insult—“why didn’t you think o’ me?”

Mrs. Hanna cleared her throat and began to unroll her mitts.

“Well, I don’t know just why,” she replied, helplessly. She drew the mitts on, smoothing them well up over her thin wrists. “I don’t know why, I’m sure. I’d thought o’ most ev’rybody in the neighborhood—but you never come into my head onct. I was as innocent o’ hintin’ as a babe unborn.”

Mrs. Bridges drew a long breath noiselessly.

“Well,” she said, absent-mindedly, “come again, Mis’ Hanna. An’ be sure you always fetch your work an’ stay the afternoon.”

“Well, I will. But it’s your turn to come now. Where’s Isaphene?”

“I guess she’s makin’ a fire ’n the cook-stove to get supper by.”

“Well, tell her to come over an’ stay all night with Julia some night.”

“Well—I will.”

Mrs. Bridges went into the kitchen and sat down, rather heavily, in a chair. Her face wore a puzzled expression.

“Isaphene, did you hear what we was a-sayin’ in the bedroom?”

“Yes, most of it, I guess.”

“Well, what do you s’pose was the reason she never thought o’ me a-takin’ Mis’ Lane in? Says she’d thought o’ ev’rybody else.”

“Why, you never thought o’ takin’ her in yourself, did you?” said Isaphene, turning down the damper of the stove with a clatter. “I don’t see how anybody else ’u’d think of it when you didn’t yourself.”

“Well, don’t you think it was offul impadent in her to say that, anyhow?”

“No, I don’t. She told the truth.”

“Why ought they to think o’ ev’rybody takin’ her exceptin’ me, I’d like to know.”

“Because ev’rybody else, I s’pose, has thought of it theirselves. The neighbors have all been chippin’ in to help her for years. You never done nothin’ for her, did you? You never invited her to visit here, did you?”

“No, I never. But that ain’t no sayin’ I wouldn’t take her as quick ’s the rest of ’em. They ain’t none of ’em takin’ her in very fast, be they?”

“No, they ain’t,” said Isaphene, facing her mother with a steady look. “They ain’t a one of ’em but ’s got their hands full—no spare room, an’ lots o’ childern or their folks to take care of.”

“Hunh!” said Mrs. Bridges. She began chopping cold boiled beef for hash.

“I don’t believe I’ll sleep to-night for thinkin’ about it,” she said, after a while.

“I won’t neither, maw. I wish she wasn’t goin’ right by here.”

“So do I.”

After a long silence Mrs. Bridges said—“I don’t suppose your paw’d hear to us a-takin’ her in.”

“I guess he’d hear to ’t if we would,” said Isaphene, dryly.

“Well, we can’t do’t; that’s all there is about it,” announced Mrs. Bridges, with a great air of having made up her mind. Isaphene did not reply. She was slicing potatoes to fry, and she seemed to agree silently with her mother’s decision. Presently, however, Mrs. Bridges said, in a less determined tone—“There’s no place to put her in, exceptin’ the spare room—an’ we can’t get along without that, noways.”

“No,” said Isaphene, in a non-committal tone.

Mrs. Bridges stopped chopping and looked thoughtfully out of the door.

“There’s this room openin’ out o’ the kitchen,” she said, slowly. “It’s nice an’ big an’ sunny. It ’u’d be handy ’n winter, bein’ right off o’ the kitchen. But it ain’t furnished up.”

“No,” said Isaphene, “it ain’t.”

“An’ I know your paw’d never furnish it.”

Isaphene laughed. “No, I guess not,” she said.

“Well, there’s no use a-thinkin’ about it, Isaphene; we just can’t take her. Better get them potatoes on; I see the men-folks comin’ up to the barn.”

The next morning after breakfast Isaphene said suddenly, as she stood washing dishes—“Maw, I guess you’d better take the organ money an’ furnish up that room.”

Mrs. Bridges turned so sharply she dropped the turkey-wing with which she was polishing the stove.

“You don’t never mean it,” she gasped.

“Yes, I do. I know we’d both feel better to take her in than to take in an organ”—they both laughed rather foolishly at the poor joke. “You can furnish the room real comf’table with what it ’u’d take to buy an organ; an’ we can get the horse an’ buggy, too.”

“Oh, Isaphene, I’ve never meant but what you should have an organ. I know you’d learn fast. You’d soon get so’s you could play ‘Lilly Dale’ an’ ‘Hazel Dell;’ an’ you might get so’s you could play ‘General Persifer F. Smith’s Grand March.’ No, I won’t never spend that money for nothin’ but an organ—so you can just shet up about it.”

“I want a horse an’ buggy worse, maw,” said Isaphene, after a brief but fierce struggle with the dearest desire of her heart. “We can get a horse that I can ride, too. An’ we’ll get a phaeton, so’s we can take Mis’ Lane to church an’ around.” Then she added, with a regular masterpiece of diplomacy—“We’ll show the neighbors that when we do take people in, we take ’em in all over!”

“Oh, Isaphene,” said her mother, weakly, “wouldn’t it just astonish ’em!”

It was ten o’clock of the following morning when Isaphene ran in and announced that she heard wheels coming up the lane. Mrs. Bridges paled a little and breathed quickly as she put on her bonnet and went out to the gate.

A red spring-wagon was coming slowly toward her, drawn by a single, bony horse. The driver was half asleep on the front seat. Behind, in a low chair, sat old Mrs. Lane; she was stooping over, her elbows on her knees, her gray head bowed.

Mrs. Bridges held up her hand, and the driver pulled in the unreluctant horse.

“How d’you do, Mis’ Lane? I want that you should come in an’ visit me a while.”

The old creature lifted her trembling head and looked at Mrs. Bridges; then she saw the old house, half hidden by vines and flowers, and her dim eyes filled with bitter tears.

“We ain’t got time to stop, ma’am,” said the driver, politely. “I’m a takin’ her to the county,” he added, in a lower tone, but not so low that the old woman did not hear.

“You’ll have to make time,” said Mrs. Bridges, bluntly. “You get down an’ help her out. You don’t have to wait. When I’m ready for her to go to the county, I’ll take her myself.”

Not understanding in the least, but realizing, as he said afterwards, that she “meant business” and wasn’t the kind to be fooled with, the man obeyed with alacrity.

“Now, you lean all your heft on me,” said Mrs. Bridges, kindly. She put her arm around the old woman and led her up the hollyhock path, and through the house into the pleasant kitchen.

“Isaphene, you pull that big chair over here where it’s cool. Now, Mis’ Lane, you set right down an’ rest.”

Mrs. Lane wiped the tears from her face with an old cotton handkerchief. She tried to speak, but the sobs had to be swallowed down too fast. At last she said, in a choked voice—“It’s awful good in you—to let me see the old place—once more. The Lord bless you—for it. But I’m most sorry I stopped—seems now as if I—just couldn’t go on.”

“Well, you ain’t goin’ on,” said Mrs. Bridges, while Isaphene went to the door and stood looking toward the hill with drowned eyes. “This is our little joke—Isaphene’s an’ mine. This’ll be your home as long as it’s our’n. An’ you’re goin’ to have this nice big room right off o’ the kitchen, as soon ’s we can furnish it up. An’ we’re goin’ to get a horse an’ buggy—a low buggy, so’s you can get in an’ out easy like—an’ take you to church an’ all around.”

That night, after Mrs. Bridges had put Mrs. Lane to bed and said good-night to her, she went out on the front porch and sat down; but presently, remembering that she had not put a candle in the room, she went back, opening the door noiselessly, not to disturb her. Then she stood perfectly still. The old creature had got out of bed and was kneeling beside it, her face buried in her hands.

“Oh, Lord God,” she was saying aloud, “bless these kind people—bless ’em, oh, Lord God! Hear a poor, old mis’rable soul’s prayer, an’ bless ’em! An’ if they’ve ever done a sinful thing, oh, Lord God, forgive ’em for it, because they’ve kep’ me out o’ the poor-house—”

Mrs. Bridges closed the door, and stood sobbing as if her heart must break.

“What’s the matter, maw?” said Isaphene, coming up suddenly.

“Never you mind what’s the matter,” said her mother, sharply, to conceal her emotion. “You get to bed, an’ don’t bother your head about what’s the matter of me.”

Then she went down the hall and entered her own room; and Isaphene heard the key turned in the lock.