"Oh, that won't matter. Oh, what a big fellow he is! I haven't any of my
own," said Mrs. Hall, and a look passed like an electric spark between
the two women, and Delia was her willing guest from that moment.
They went into the little sitting room, so dainty and lovely to the
farmer's wife, and as she sank into an easy-chair she was faint and
drowsy with the pleasure of it. She submitted to being brushed. She gave
the baby into the hands of the Swedish girl, who washed its face and
hands and sang it to sleep, while its mother sipped some tea. Through it
all she lay back in her easy-chair, not speaking a word, while the ache
passed out of her back, and her hot, swollen head ceased to throb.
But she saw everything--the piano, the pictures, the curtains, the
wall-paper, the little tea-stand. They were almost as grateful to her
as the food and fragrant tea. Such housekeeping as this she had never
seen. Her mother had worn her kitchen floor thin as brown paper in
keeping a speckless house, and she had been in houses that were larger
and costlier, but something of the charm of her hostess was in the
arrangement of vases, chairs, or pictures. It was tasteful.
Mrs. Hall did not ask about her affairs. She talked to her about the
sturdy little baby, and about the things upon which Delia's eyes dwelt.
If she seemed interested in a vase she was told what it was and where it
was made. She was shown all the pictures and books. Mrs. Hall seemed to
read her visitor's mind. She kept as far from the farm and her guest's
affairs as possible, and at last she opened the piano and sang to
her--not slow-moving hymns, but catchy love-songs full of sentiment, and
then played some simple melodies, knowing that Mrs. Markham's eyes were
studying her hands, her rings, and the flash of her fingers on the
keys--seeing more than she heard--and through it all Mrs. Hall conveyed
the impression that she, too, was having a good time.
The rattle of the wagon outside roused them both. Sam was at the gate
for her. Mrs. Markham rose hastily. "Oh, it's almost sundown!" she
gasped in astonishment as she looked out of the window.
"Oh, that won't kill anybody," replied her hostess. "Don't hurry.
Carrie, take the baby out to the wagon for Mrs. Markham while I help her
with her things."
"Oh, I've had such a good time," Mrs. Markham said as they went down the
little walk.
"So have I," replied Mrs. Hall. She took the baby a moment as her guest
climbed in. "Oh, you big, fat fellow!" she cried as she gave him a
squeeze. "You must bring your wife in oftener, Mr. Markham," she said,
as she handed the baby up.
Sam was staring with amazement.
"Thank you, I will," he finally managed to say.
"Good-night," said Mrs. Markham.
"Good-night, dear," called Mrs. Hall, and the wagon began to rattle off.
The tenderness and sympathy in her voice brought the tears to Delia's
eyes--not hot nor bitter tears, but tears that cooled her eyes and
cleared her mind.
The wind had gone down, and the red sunlight fell mistily over the world
of corn and stubble. The crickets were still chirping and the feeding
cattle were drifting toward the farmyards. The day had been made
beautiful by human sympathy.