“Don’t speak too loud, it jars a person’s head,” directed Mrs. Hight
plainly. “Clear an’ distinct is what reaches me best. Any news to the
Landin’?”
I was happily furnished with the particulars of a sudden death, and an
engagement of marriage between a Caplin, a seafaring widower home from
his voyage, and one of the younger Harrises; and now Mrs. Hight really
smiled and settled herself in her chair. We exhausted one subject
completely before we turned to the other. One of the returning turkeys
took an unwarrantable liberty, and, mounting the doorstep, came in and
walked about the kitchen without being observed by its strict owner; and
the tin dipper slipped off its nail behind us and made an astonishing
noise, and jar enough to reach Mrs. Hight’s inner ear and make her turn
her head to look at it; but we talked straight on. We came at last to
understand each other upon such terms of friendship that she unbent her
majestic port and complained to me as any poor old woman might of the
hardships of her illness. She had already fixed various dates upon the
sad certainty of the year when she had the shock, which had left her
perfectly helpless except for a clumsy left hand which fanned and
gestured, and settled and resettled the folds of her dress, but could do
no comfortable time-shortening work.
“Yes’m, you can feel sure I use it what I can,” she said severely.
“’Twas a long spell before I could let Esther go forth in the mornin’
till she’d got me up an’ dressed me, but now she leaves things ready
overnight and I get ’em as I want ’em with my light pair o’ tongs, and I
feel very able about helpin’ myself to what I once did. Then when Esther
returns, all she has to do is to push me out here into the kitchen. Some
parts o’ the year Esther stays out all night, them moonlight nights when
the dogs are apt to be after the sheep, but she don’t use herself as
hard as she once had to. She’s well able to hire somebody, Esther is,
but there, you can’t find no hired man that wants to git up before five
o’clock nowadays; ’tain’t as ’twas in my time. They’re liable to fall
asleep, too, and them moonlight nights she’s so anxious she can’t sleep,
and out she goes. There’s a kind of a fold, she calls it, up there in a
sheltered spot, and she sleeps up in a little shed she’s got,—built it
herself for lambin’ time and when the poor foolish creatur’s gets hurt
or anything. I’ve never seen it, but she says it’s in a lovely spot and
always pleasant in any weather. You see off, other side of the ridge, to
the south’ard, where there’s houses. I used to think some time I’d get
up to see it again, and all them spots she lives in, but I sha’n’t now.
I’m beginnin’ to go back; an’ ’tain’t surprisin’. I’ve kind of got used
to disappointments,” and the poor soul drew a deep sigh.