"Hush your mouth. You don't know what troubles are. Think of havin' to fight with your own blood kin, your own children. Think of your own daughter slanderin' you, and your own son havin' you arrested!" "I expect you've had a pretty hard life, Mrs. Stuvic." "Hard life! That don't tell half of it." "And yet you want to stay here longer." "What! Do you reckon I want to give Nan a chance to drag that cat over my grave?" "Let her drag it. What's the difference? You won't know anything about it." "But how do I know that? And I'd be in a pretty fix, havin' her drag a cat over me and not bein' able to help myself. No, I want to wait till she dies, the unnatural thing." "Can't you make it up with her?" "Make it up with her? Do you reckon I want to make it up with her? Do you reckon I'd stoop that much?" "You call her unnatural. Don't you think you may be just a little unnatural yourself?" "Now, look here, if you're goin' to take her part you march yourself off this place." "I'm not taking her part. I don't know her." "Then keep still. Don't you think you'd better come over to the house and stay durin' the winter?" "No, I'd rather stay over there." "All by yourself?" "Bob'll be there." "Land's sakes, are you goin' to keep him all winter? I thought you had more sense than to put on such lugs. But you've got to come over here every night or two. I don't want to die here alone." A boy on a horse rode up to the gate. The old woman went out to him. She came running back, with her limp hands flapping in the air. Her sister had sent for her. She begged Milford to hitch up the pony as fast as he could. She said that he must drive her over there. On the road she did not speak a word, except to give directions. She sat stiff and grim. Persons whom they passed stared at her, straight, squaw-like, with a hawk feather standing sharp in her hat. They drew up at a small white house in the woods. Yellow leaves were falling about it. A peacock spread the harsh alarm of their arrival. The old woman commanded Milford to get out and to wait for her. She did not know how long she might stay. A woman opened the door for them. Mrs. Stuvic recognized her as the mother of the girl from the poor-house. Milford sat down in the dreary passage-way. Mrs. Stuvic followed the woman into a room. The lines about her mouth tightened as she caught sight of her sister, on a bed in a corner. She drew up a chair, and sat down by the bedside. "What's the matter, Nan?" The sister slowly turned upon her pillow and looked at her with gaunt eyes and open mouth. "Dying," she whispered in her hard breathing. "Do you think you be?" "I know it--taken last night--doctor's gone. Couldn't do anythin'. Worn out, Mary Ann." "No, Nan, you just think you be. Look at me. I've had twice as much trouble as you." The dying woman slowly shook her head. "It's been all trouble--nothin' but trouble. Mary Ann, you know the threat I made." "Don't now--keep still."