"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."