IX

It was the first Sunday in June. Mrs. Waycroft came along the stony

hill-side road that slanted gently down from her house to Ann Boyd's. It

was a dry, breezeless morning under an unclouded sun, and but for the

earliness of the hour it would have been hot.

"I was just wondering," she said to Ann, whom she found in the back-yard

lowering a pail of butter into the well to keep it cool--"I was just

wondering if you'd heard that a new man is to preach to-day. He's a Mr.

Calhoun, from Marietta, a pretty good talker, I've heard."

"No, I didn't know it," said Ann, as she let the hemp rope slowly glide

through her fingers, till, with a soft sound, the pail struck the dark

surface of the water forty feet below. "How am I to hear such things?

Through the whole week, unless you happen along, I only have a pack of

negroes about me, and they have their own meetings and shindigs to go

to."

Mrs. Waycroft put her hand on the smooth, wooden windlass and peered

down into the well. "This is a better place, Ann, to keep milk and

butter cool than a spring-house, if you can just make folks careful

about letting the bucket down. I got my well filled with milk from a

busted jug once, when one of the hands, in a big hurry, pushed the

bucket in and let it fall to the water."

"Nobody draws water here but me," said Ann. She had fixed her friend

with a steady, penetrating stare. She was silent for a moment, then she

said, abruptly: "You've got something else to say besides that about the

new preacher; I have got so I read you like a book. I watched you coming

along the road. I could see you over the roof of the house when you was

high up in the edge of the timber, and I knew by your step you had

something unusual on your mind. Besides, you know good and well that I'd

never darken the door of that house again, not if forty new preachers

held forth there. No, you didn't come all the way here so early for

that."

The other woman smiled sheepishly under her gingham bonnet.

"I'm not going to meeting myself," she said, "and I reckon I was just

talking to hear myself run on. I'm that away, you know."

"You might learn not to beat the Old Nick around a stump with a woman

like me," said Ann, firmly. "You know I go straight at a thing. I've

found that it pays in business and everything else."

"Well, then, I've come to tell you that I'm going over to Gilmer

to-morrow to see my brother and his wife."

"Ah, you say you are!" Ann showed surprise against her will. "Gilmer?"

"Yes, you see, Ann, they've been after me for a long time, writing

letters and sending word, so now that my crop is laid by I've not really

got a good excuse to delay; seems like everything tends to pull me that

way whether or no, for Pete McQuill is going over in the morning with an

empty wagon, and, as he's coming back Thursday, why, it will just suit.

I wouldn't want to stay longer than that."

The two women stood staring at each other in silence for a moment, then

Ann shrugged her powerful shoulders and averted her eyes.

"That wasn't _all_ you come to say," she said, almost tremulously.

"No, it wasn't, Ann; I admit it wasn't _all_--not quite all."

There was another silence. Ann fastened the end of the rope to a strong

nail driven in the wood-work about the well with firm, steady fingers,

then she sighed deeply.

"You see, Ann," Mrs. Waycroft gathered courage to say, "your husband and

Nettie live about half a mile or three-quarters from brother's, and I

didn't know but what you--I didn't know but what I might accidentally

run across them."

Ann's face was hard as stone. Her eyes, resting on the far-off blue

mountains and foot-hills, flashed like spiritual fires. It was at such

moments that the weaker woman feared her, and Mrs. Waycroft's glance was

almost apologetic. However, Ann spoke first.

"You may as well tell me, Mary Waycroft," she faltered, "exactly what

you had in mind. I know you are a friend. You are a friend if there ever

was one to a friendless woman. What was you thinking about? Don't be

afraid to tell me. You could not hurt my feelings to save your life."

"Well, then, I will be plain, Ann," returned the widow. "I have queer

thoughts about you sometimes, and last night I laid awake longer than

usual and got to thinking about the vast and good blessings I have had

in my children, and from that I got to thinking about you and the only

baby you ever had."

"Huh! you needn't bother about _that_," said Ann, her lips quivering. "I

reckon I don't need sympathy in that direction."

"But I _did_ bother; I couldn't help it, Ann; for, you see, it seems to

me that a misunderstanding is up between you and Nettie, anyway. She's a

grown girl now, and I reckon she can hardly remember you; but I have

heard, Ann, that she's never had the things a girl of her age naturally

craves. She's got her beaus over there, too, so folks tell me, and wants

to appear well; but Joe Boyd never was able to give her anything she

needs. You see, Ann, I just sorter put myself in your place, as I laid

there thinking, and it struck me that if I had as much substance as you

have, and was as free to give to the needy as you are, that, even if the

law _had_ turned my child over to another to provide for, that I'd love

powerful to do more for it than he was able, showing to the girl, and

everybody else, that the court didn't know what it was about. And, Ann,

in that way I'd feel that I was doing my duty in spite of laws or narrow

public opinion."

Ann Boyd's features were working, a soft flush had come into her tanned

cheeks, her hard mouth had become more flexible.

"I've thought of that ten thousand times," she said, huskily, "but I

have never seen the time I could quite come down to it. Mary, it's a

sort of pride that I never can overcome. I feel peculiar about

Net--about the girl, anyway. It seems to me like she died away back

there in her baby-clothes, with her playthings--her big rag-doll and tin

kitchen--and that I almost hate the strange, grown-up person she's

become away off from me. As God is my Judge, Mary Waycroft, I believe I

could meet her face to face and not feel--feel like she was any near kin

of mine, I can't see no reason in this way of feeling. I know she had

nothing to do with what took place, but she represents Joe Boyd's part

of the thing, and she's lost her place in my heart. If she could have

grown up here with me it would have been different, but--" Ann went no

further. She stood looking over the landscape, her hand clutching her

strong chin. There was an awkward silence. Some of Ann's chickens came

up to her very skirt, chirping and springing open-mouthed to her kindly

hand for food. She gently and absent-mindedly waved her apron up and

down and drove them away.

"I understand all that," said Mrs. Waycroft; "but I believe you feel

that way just because you've got in the habit of it. I really believe

you ought to let me"--the speaker caught her breath--"ought to just let

me tell Nettie, when I see her, about what I know you to be at heart,

away down under what the outside world thinks. And you ought to let me

say that if her young heart yearns for anything her pa can't afford to

buy, that I know you'd be glad, out of your bounty, to give it to her. I

really believe it would open the girl's eyes and heart to you. I believe

she'd not only accept your aid, but she'd be plumb happy over it, as any

other girl in the same fix would be."

"Do you think that, Mary? Do you think she'd take anything--a single

thing from my hands?"

"I do, Ann, as the Lord is my Creator, I do; any natural girl would be

only too glad. Young women hungering for nice things to put on along

with other girls ain't as particular as some hide-bound old people. Then

I'll bet she didn't know what it was all about, anyway."

There was a flush in Ann's strong neck and face to the very roots of her

hair. She leaned against the windlass and folded her bare arms. "Between

me and you, as intimate friends, Mary Waycroft, I'd rather actually load

that girl down with things to have and wear than to have anything on the

face of this earth. I'd get on the train myself and go clean to Atlanta

and lay myself out. What she had to wear would be the talk of the

country for miles around. I'd do it to give the lie to the court that

said she'd be in better hands than in mine when she went away with Joe

Boyd. Oh, I'd do it fast enough, but there's no way. She wouldn't

propose it, nor I wouldn't for my life. I wouldn't run the risk of being

refused; that would actually humble me to the dust. No, I couldn't risk

that."

"I believe, Ann, that I could do it for you in such a way that----"

"No, nobody could do it; it isn't to be done!"

"I started to say, Ann, that I believed I could kind o' hint around and

find out how the land lies without using your name at all."

Ann Boyd held her breath; her face became fixed in suspense. She leaned

forward, her great eyes staring eagerly at her neighbor.

"Do you think you could do that?" she asked, finally, after a lengthy

pause. "Do you think you could do it without letting either of them know

I was--was willing?"

"Yes, I believe I could, and you may let it rest right here. You needn't

either consent or refuse, Ann, but I'll be back here about twelve

o'clock Thursday, and I'll tell you what takes place."

"I'll leave the whole thing in your hands," said Ann, and she moved

towards the rear door of her house. "Now"--and her tone was more joyful

than it had been for years--"come in and sit down."

"No, I can't; I must hurry on back home," said the visitor. "I must get

ready to go; Pete wants to make an early start."

"You know you'll have plenty of time all this evening to stuff things in

that carpet-bag of yours." Ann laughed, and her friend remarked that it

was the first smile and joke she had heard from Ann Boyd since their

girlhood together.

"Well, I will go in, then," said Mrs. Waycroft. "I love to see you the

way you are now, Ann. It does my heart good."

But the mood was gone. Ann was serious again. They sat in the

sitting-room chatting till the people who had been to meeting began to

return homeward along the dusty road. Among them, in Sam Hemingway's

spring wagon, with its wabbling wheels and ragged oil-cloth top, were

Jane and her daughter Virginia, neither of whom looked towards the

cottage as they passed.

"I see Virginia's got a new hat," commented Mrs. Waycroft. "Her mother

raked and scraped to get it; her credit's none too good. I hear she's in

debt up to her eyes. Every stick of timber and animal down to her litter

of pigs--even the farm tools--is under mortgage to money-lenders that

won't stand no foolishness when pay-day comes. I saw two of 'em, myself,

looking over her crop the other day and shaking their heads at the sight

of the puny corn and cotton this dry spell. But she'd have the hat for

Virginia if it took the roof from over her head. Her very soul's bound

up in that girl. Looks like she thinks Virginia's better clay than

common folks. They say she won't let her go with the Halcomb girls

because their aunt had that talk about her."

"She's no better nor no worse, I reckon," said Ann, "than the general

run of girls."

"There goes Langdon Chester on his prancing horse," said Mrs. Waycroft.

"Oh, my! that _was_ a bow! He took off his hat to Virginia and bent

clean down to his horse's mane. If she'd been a queen he couldn't have

been more gallant. For all the world, like his father used to be to high

and low. I'll bet that tickled Jane. I can see her rear herself back,

even from here. I wonder if she's fool enough to think, rascal as he is,

that Langdon Chester would want to marry a girl like Virginia just for

her good looks."

"No, he'll never marry her," Ann said, positively, and her face was

hard, her eyes set in a queer stare at her neighbor. "He isn't the

marrying sort. If he ever marries, he'll do it to feather his nest."

The visitor rose to go, and Ann walked with her out to the gate. Mrs.

Waycroft was wondering if she would, of her own accord, bring up the

subject of their recent talk, but she did not. With her hand on the

gate, she said, however, in a non-committal tone:

"When did you say you'd be back?"

"Thursday, at twelve o'clock, or thereabouts," was the ready reply.

"Well, take good care of yourself," said Ann. "That will be a long, hot

ride over a rough road there and back."

Going into her kitchen, Ann, with her roughly shod foot, kicked some

live embers on the hearth under the pot and kettle containing her

dinner, bending to examine the boiling string-beans and hunch of salt

pork.

"I don't feel a bit like eating," she mused, "but I reckon my appetite

will come after I calm down. Let's see now. I've got two whole days to

wait before she gets back, and then the Lord above only knows what the

news will be. Seems to me sorter like I'm on trial again. Nettie was too

young to appear for or against me before, but now she's on the stand.

Yes, she's the judge, jury, and all the rest put together. I almost wish

I hadn't let Mary Waycroft see I was willing. It may make me look like a

weak, begging fool, and that's something I've avoided all these years.

But the game is worth the risk, humiliating as it may turn out. To be

able to do something for my own flesh and blood would give me the first

joy I've had in many a year. Lord, Lord, maybe she will consent, and

then I'll get some good out of all the means I've been piling up. Homely

as they say she is, I'd like to fairly load her down till her finery

would be the talk of the county, and shiftless Joe Boyd 'ud blush to see

her rustle out in public. Maybe--I say _maybe_--nobody really knows what

a woman will do--but maybe she'll just up and declare to him that she's

coming back to me, where other things will match her outfit. Come back!

how odd!--come back here where she used to toddle about and play with

her tricks and toys, on the floor and in the yard. That would be a

glorious vindication, and then--I don't know, but maybe I'd learn to

love her. I'm sure I'd feel grateful for it--even--even if it was my

money and nothing else that brought her to me."

X

To Ann Boyd the period between Mrs. Waycroft's departure and return was

long and fraught with conflicting emotions. Strange, half-defined new

hopes fluttered into existence like young birds in air that was too

chill, and this state of mind was succeeded by qualms of doubt and fear

not unlike the misgivings which had preceded the child's birth; for it

had been during that time of detachment from her little world that Ann's

life secret had assumed its gravest and most threatening aspect. And if

she had not loved the child quite as much after it came as might have

seemed natural, she sometimes ascribed the shortcoming to that morbid

period which had been filled with lurking shadows and constantly

whispered threats rather than the assurances of a blessed maternity.

Yes, the lone woman reflected, her kind neighbor had taken a reasonable

view of the situation. And she tried valiantly to hold this pacifying

thought over herself as she sat at her rattling and pounding loom, or in

her walks of daily inspection over her fields and to her storage-houses,

where her negro hands were at work. Yes, Nettie would naturally crave

the benefits she could confer, and, to still darker promptings, Ann told

herself, time after time, that, being plain-looking, the girl would all

the more readily reach out for embellishments which would ameliorate

that defect. Yes, it was not unlikely that she would want the things

offered too much to heed the malicious and jealous advice of a shiftless

father who thought only of his own pride and comfort. And while Ann was

on this rack of disquietude over the outcome of Mrs. Waycroft's visit,

there was in her heart a new and almost unusual absence of active hatred

for the neighbors who had offended her. Old Abe Longley came by the

second day after Mrs. Waycroft's departure. He was filled with the

augmented venom of their last contact. His eyes flashed and the yellow

tobacco-juice escaped from his mouth and trickled down his quivering

chin as he informed her that he had secured from a good, law-abiding

Christian woman the use of all the pasture-land he needed, and that she

could keep hers for the devils' imps to play pranks on at night to her

order. For just one instant her blood boiled, and then the thought of

Mrs. Waycroft and her grave and spiritual mission cooled her from head

to foot. She stared at the old man blankly for an instant, and then,

without a word, turned into her house, leaving him astounded and

considerably taken aback. That same day from her doorway she saw old

Mrs. Bruce, Luke King's mother, slowly shambling along the road, and she

went out and leaned on her gate till Mrs. Bruce was near, then she said,

"Mrs. Bruce, I've got something to tell you."

The pedestrian paused and then turned in her course and came closer.

"You've heard from my boy?" she said, eagerly.

"No, not since I saw you that day," said Ann. "But he's all right, Mrs.

Bruce, as I told you, and prospering. I didn't come out to speak of him.

I've decided to drop that law-suit against Gus Willard. He can keep his

pond where it is and run his mill on."

"Oh, you don't mean it, surely you don't mean it, Ann!" the old woman

cried. "Why, Gus was just back from Darley last night and said your

lawyers said thar was to be no hitch in the proceedings; but, of course,

if _you_ say so, why--"

"Well, I _do_ say so," said Ann, in a tone which sounded strange and

compromising even to herself. "I _do_ say so; I don't want your husband

to lose his job. Luke wouldn't like for you to suffer, either, Mrs.

Bruce."

"Then I'll go at once and tell Willard," said the older woman. "He'll be

powerful glad, Ann, and maybe he will think as I do, an' as Luke always

contended against everybody, that you had a lots o' good away down

inside of you."

"Tell him what you want to," Ann answered, and she returned to her

house.

On the morning she was expecting Mrs. Waycroft to return, Ann rose even

before daybreak, lighting an abundant supply of pine kindling-wood to

drive away the moist darkness, and bustling about the house to kill

time. It was the greatest crisis of her rugged life; not even the day

she was wedded to Joe Boyd could equal it in impending gravity. She was

on trial for her life; the jury had been in retirement two days and

nights carefully weighing the evidence for and against the probability

of a simple, untutored country girl's acceptance of certain luxuries

dear to a woman's heart, and would shortly render a verdict.

"She will," Ann said once, as she put her ground coffee into the tin pot

to boil on the coals--"she will if she's like the ordinary girl; she

won't if she's as stubborn as Joe or as proud as I am. But if she

does--oh! if she does, won't I love to pick out the things! She shall

have the best in the land, and she can wear them and keep them in the

log-cabin her father's giving her till she will be willing to come here

to this comfortable house and take the best room for herself. I don't

know that I'd ever feel natural with a strange young woman about, but

I'd go through it. If she didn't want to stay all the time, I'd sell

factory stock or town lots and give her the means to travel on. She

could go out and see the world and improve like Luke King's done. I'd

send her to school if she has the turn and isn't past the age. It would

be a great vindication for me. Folks could say her shiftless father took

her off when she was too young to decide for herself, but when she got

old enough to know black from white, and right from wrong, she obeyed

her heart's promptings. But what am I thinking about, when right at this

minute she may--?" Ann shrugged her shoulders as she turned from the

cheerful fire and looked out on her fields enfolded in the misty robe of

early morning. Above the dun mountain in the east the sky was growing

yellow. Ann suddenly grew despondent and heaved a deep sigh.

"Even if she _did_ come here in the end, and I tried to do all I could,"

she mused, "Jane Hemingway would begin on her and make it unpleasant.

She'd manage to keep all civilization away from the girl, and nobody

couldn't stand that. No, I reckon the jig's up with me. I'm only

floundering in a frying-pan that will cook me to a cinder in the end.

This life's given me the power of making money, but it's yellow dross,

and I hate it. It isn't the means to any end for me

unless--unless--unless my dau--unless she _does_ take Mrs. Waycroft's

offer. Yes, she may--the girl actually may! And in that case she and I

could run away from Jane Hemingway--clean off to some new place."

Ann turned back to the fireplace and filled her big delft cup to the

brim with strong coffee, and, blowing upon it to cool it, she gulped it

down.

"Let's see"--her musings ran on apace--"milching the three cows and

feeding the cattle and horses and pigs and chickens will take an hour. I

could stretch it out to that by mixing the feed-stuff for to-morrow.

Then I could go to the loom and weave up all my yarn; that would be

another hour. Then I might walk down to the sugar-mill and see if they

are getting it fixed for use when the sorgum's ripe, but all that

wouldn't throw it later than ten o'clock at latest, and there would

still be two hours. Pete McQuill is easy on horses; he'll drive slow--a

regular snail's pace; it will be twelve when he gets to the store, and

then the fool may stop to buy something before he brings her on."

The old-fashioned clock on the mantel-piece indicated that it was

half-past eleven when Ann had done everything about the house and farm

she could think of laying her hands to, and she was about to sit down in

the shade of an apple-tree in the yard when she suddenly drew herself up

under the inspiration of an idea. Why not start down the road to meet

the wagon? No, that would not do. Even to such a close friend as Mrs.

Waycroft she could not make such an obvious confession of the impatience

which was devouring her. But, and she put the after-thought into action,

she would go to the farthest corner of her own land, where her premises

touched the main road, and that was fully half a mile. She walked to

that point across her own fields rather than run the chance of meeting

any one on the road, though the way over ploughed ground, bog, fen, and

through riotous growth of thistle and clinging briers was anything but

an easy one. Reaching the point to which she had directed her steps, and

taking a hasty survey of the road leading gradually up the mountain, she

leaned despondently on her rail-fence.

"She won't, she won't--the girl won't!" she sighed. "I feel down in my

heart of hearts that she won't. Joe Boyd won't let her; he'd see how

ridiculous it would make him appear, and he'd die rather than give in,

and yet Mary Waycroft knows something about human nature, and she

said--Mary said--"

Far up the road there was a rumble of wheels. Pete McQuill would let his

horses go rapidly down-hill, and that, perhaps, was his wagon. It was.

She recognized the gaunt, underfed white-and-bay pair through the trees

on the mountain-side. Then Ann became all activity. She discovered that

one of the rails of the panel of fence near by had quite rotted away,

leaving an opening wide enough to admit of the passage of a small pig.

To repair such a break she usually took a sound rail from some portion

of the fence that was high enough to spare it, and this she now did, and

was diligently at work when the wagon finally reached her. She did not

look up, although she plainly heard Mrs. Waycroft's voice as she asked

McQuill to stop.

"You might as well let me out here," the widow said. "I'll walk back

with Mrs. Boyd."

The wagon was lumbering on its way when Ann turned her set face, down

which drops of perspiration were rolling, towards her approaching

friend.

"You caught me hard at it." She tried to smile casually. "Do you know

patching fence is the toughest work on a farm--harder 'n splitting

rails, that men complain so much about."

"It's a man's work, Ann, and a big, strong one's, too. You ought never

to tax your strength like that. You don't mean to tell me you lifted

that stack of rails to put in the new one."

"Yes, but what's that?" Ann smiled. "I shouldered a

hundred-and-fifty-pound sack of salt the other day, and it was as hard

as a block of stone. I'm used to anything. But I'm through now. Let's

walk on home and have a bite to eat."

"You don't seem to care much whether--" Mrs. Waycroft paused and started

again. "You haven't forgotten what I said I'd try to find out over

there, have you, Ann?"

"Me? Oh no, but I reckon I'm about pegged out with all I've done this

morning. Don't I look tired?"

"You don't looked tired--you look worried, Ann. I know you; you needn't

try to hide your feelings from me. We are both women. When you are

suffering the most you beat about the bush more than any other time.

That's why this is going to be so hard for me."

"It's going to be _hard_ for you, then?" Ann's impulsive voice sounded

hollow; her face had suddenly grown pale. "I know what _that_ means. It

means that Joe set his foot down against me and--"

"I wish I could tell you all, every blessed word, Ann, but you've

already had too much trouble in this life, and I feel like I was such a

big, ignorant fool to get this thing up and make such a mess of it."

Ann climbed over the fence and stood in the road beside her companion.

Her face was twisted awry by some force bound up within her. She laid

her big, toil-worn hand on Mrs. Waycroft's shoulder.

"Now, looky here," she said, harshly. "I'm going to hear every word and

know everything that took place. You must not leave out one single item.

I've got the right to know it all, and I will. Now, you start in."

"I hardly know how, Ann," the other woman faltered. "I didn't know folks

in this world could have so little human pity or forgiveness."

"You go ahead, do you hear me? You blaze away. I can stand under fire.

I'm no kitten. Go ahead, I tell you."

"Well, Ann, I met Joe and Nettie day before yesterday at bush-arbor

meeting. Joe was there, and looked slouchier and more downhearted than

he ever did in his life, and Nettie was there with the young man she is

about to marry--a tall, serious-faced, parson-like young man, a Mr.

Lawson. Well, after meeting, while he was off feeding his horse, I made

a break and got the girl by herself. Well, Ann, from all I could gather,

she--well, she didn't look at it favorably."

"Stop!" Ann cried, peremptorily, "I don't want any shirking. I want to

hear actually every word she said. This thing may never come up between

you and me again while the sun shines, and I want the truth. You are not

toting fair. I want the facts--_every word the girl said_, every look,

every bat of the eye, every sneer. I'm prepared. You talk

plain--_plain_, I tell you!"

"I see I'll _have_ to," sighed Mrs. Waycroft, her eyes averted from the

awful stare in Ann's eyes. "The truth is, Ann, Nettie's been thinking

all her life, till just about a month ago, that you were--dead. Joe Boyd

told her you was dead and buried, and got all the neighbors to keep the

truth from her. It leaked out when she got engaged to young Lawson; his

folks, Ann, they are as hide-bound and narrow as the worst hard-shell

Baptists here--his folks raised objections and tried to break it off."

"On account of me?" said Ann, under her breath.

"Well, they tried to break it off," evaded Mrs. Waycroft, "and, in all

the trouble over it, Nettie found out the facts--Joe finally told her.

They say, Ann, that it brought her down to a sick-bed. She's a queer

sort of selfish girl, that had always held her head too high, and the

discovery went hard with her. Then, Ann, the meanest thing that was ever

done by a human being took place. Jane Hemingway was over there visiting

a preacher's wife she used to know, and she set in circulation the

blackest lie that was ever afloat. Ann, she told over there that all

your means--all the land and money you have made by hard toil, big

brain, and saving--come to you underhand."

"Underhand?" Ann exclaimed. "What did she mean by that, pray? What could

the old she-cat mean by--"

Mrs. Waycroft drew her sun-bonnet down over her eyes. She took a deep

breath. "Ann, she's a _terrible_ woman. I used to think maybe you went

too far in hating her so much, but I don't blame you now one bit. On the

way over the mountain, I looked all the circumstances over, and actually

made up my mind that you'd almost be justified in killing her, law or no

law. Ann, she circulated a report over there that all you own in the

world was given to you by Colonel Chester."

"Ugh! Oh, my God!" Ann groaned like a strong man in sudden pain; and

then, with her face hidden by her poke-bonnet, she trudged heavily along

by her companion in total silence.

"I've told you the worst now," Mrs. Waycroft said. "Nettie had heard all

that, and so had Lawson. His folks finally agreed to raise no objections

to the match if she'd never mention your name. Naturally, when I told

her about what I thought _maybe_--you understand, _maybe_--you'd be

willing to do she was actually scared. She cried pitifully, and begged

me never to allow you to bother her. She said--I told you she looked

like a selfish creature--that if the Lawsons were to find out that you'd

been sending her messages it might spoil all. I told her it was all a

lie of Jane Hemingway's making out of whole cloth, but the silly girl

wouldn't listen. I thought she was going to have a spasm."

They had reached the gate, and, with a firm, steady hand, Ann opened it

and held it ajar for her guest to enter before her.

They trudged along the gravel walk, bordered with uneven stones, to the

porch and went in. On entering the house Ann always took off her bonnet.

She seemed to forget its existence now.

"Yes, I hate that woman," Mrs. Waycroft heard her mutter, "and if the

Lord doesn't furnish me with some way of getting even I'll die a

miserable death. I could willingly see her writhe on a bed of live

coals. No hell could be hot enough for that woman." Ann paused suddenly

at the door, and gazed across the green expanse towards Jane's house.

Mrs. Waycroft heard her utter a sudden, harsh laugh. "And I think I see

her punishment on the way. I see it--I see it!"

"What is it you say you see?" the visitor asked, curiously.

"Oh, nothing!" Ann said, and she sat down heavily in her chair and

tightly locked her calloused hands in front of her.