An hour later, in another dress and a freshly washed and ironed gingham bonnet, she fed her chickens from a pan of wet cornmeal dough, locked up her house carefully, fastening down the window-sashes on the inside by placing sticks above the movable ones, and trudged down the road to George Wilson’s country-store at the crossing of the roads which led respectively to Springtown, hard-by on one side, and Darley, farther away on the other. The store was a long, frame building which had once been whitewashed, but was now only a fuzzy, weather-beaten gray. As was usual in such structures, the front walls of planks rose higher than the pointed roof, and held large and elaborate lettering which might be read quite a distance away. Thereon the young store-keeper made the questionable statement that a better price for produce was given at his establishment than at Darley, where high rent, taxes, and clerk-hire had to be paid, and, moreover, that his goods were sold cheaper because, unlike the town dealers, he lived on the products from his own farm and employed no help. In front of the store, convenient alike to both roads, stood a rustic hitching-rack made of unbarked oaken poles into which railway spikes had been driven, and on which horseshoes had been nailed to hold the reins of any customer’s mount. On the ample porch of the store stood a new machine for the hulling of pease, several ploughs, and a red-painted device for the dropping and covering of seed-corn. On the walls within hung various pieces of tin-ware and harnesses and saddles, and the two rows of shelving held a good assortment of general merchandise. As Mrs. Boyd entered the store, Wilson, a blond young man with an ample mustache, stood behind the counter talking to an Atlanta drummer who had driven out from Darley to sell the store-keeper some dry-goods and notions, and he did not come to her at once, but delayed to see the drummer make an entry in his order-book; then he advanced to her. "Excuse me, Mrs. Boyd," he smiled. "I am ordering some new prints for you ladies, and I wanted to see that he got the number of bolts down right. This is early for you to be out, isn’t it? It’s been many a day since I’ve seen you pass this way before dinner. I took a sort of liberty with you yesterday, knowing how good-natured you are. Dave Prixon was going your way with his empty wagon, and, as I was about to run low on your favorite brand of flour, I sent you a barrel and put it on your account at the old price. I thought you’d keep it. You may have some yet on hand, but this will come handy when you get out." "But I don’t intend to keep it," replied the woman, under her bonnet, and her voice sounded harsh and crisp. "I haven’t touched it. It’s out in the yard where Prixon dumped it. If it was to rain on it I reckon it would mildew. It wouldn’t be my loss. I didn’t order it put there."