I think we were all a little nervous as we neared the house. Very few women could have spelled the word "home" out of those rough masculine premises. I wondered if Kitty was not offering up a prayer of thanksgiving for the life she had been delivered from. Harshaw jumped down, and, stooping under the wire fence, ran across the alfalfa stubble to the house as fast as he could for the welcome of a beautiful young setter dog--Maisie he called her--that came wildly out to meet him. A woman--not a nice-looking woman--stood at the door and watched him, and even at our distance from them there was something strange in their recognition. Kitty began to talk and laugh with forced coolness. Tom turned the horses sharply, so that the wagon's shadow lay on the roadside, away from the house. "Get out, hadn't you better?" he suggested, in the tone of a command. We got out, and Kitty asked for her sketching-bag. "Kitty," I whispered, pointing to the house, "draw _that_, and send it to your mother. She will never ask again why you didn't care to live there." "That has nothing to do with it," she retorted coldly. "I would have lived there, or anywhere, with the right person." There was no such person. I couldn't help saying it. She is very handsome when she looks down, proud and a trifle sullen when you "touch her on the raw," as the men say. "But there _is_ such a person, Kitty," I ventured. I had ventured, it seemed, too far. "You are my hostess. Your house is my only home. Don't be his accomplice!" I thought it rather well said. Now that woman's clothes were hanging on the line (and very common-looking clothes they were), so she could not have been a casual guest. Moreover, she was pacing the hard ground in front of the house, and staring at us with a truculent yet uneasy air. Curiosity was strong, and a sort of anger possessed me against the place and everybody connected with it. When Cecil came out, looking very hot and confused for him, who is always so fresh and gay, I inquired, rather shortly perhaps, "Who is your visitor?" "I have no visitor," he answered me, as cool as you please. But there was a protest in his eye. I was determined not to spare him or any of the Harshaws. "Your housekeeper, then?" "I have no housekeeper." "Who is the lady stopping at your house?" "I have no house." "Your cousin's house, then?" "If you refer to the person I was talking to--she is my cousin's housekeeper, I suppose." Tom gave me a look, and I thought it time to let the subject drop. This was in Kitty's presence, though apparently she neither saw nor heard. I walked on ahead of the wagon, so angry that I was almost sick. Instantly Harshaw joined me, with a much nicer, brighter look upon his face. "Mrs. Daly," he said, "I want to beg your pardon. I could not answer your question before Miss Comyn. The lady, as you were pleased to call her, is Mrs. Harshaw, _my cousin_--Micky's wife, you understand." "Since when?"