The woman’s speech was harsh and to the point. She continued abruptly: “You might do your own washin’ and ironin’ too, instead of hirin’ it all the time. You couldn’t do up a pocket-handkerchief.” Esther got up, and laid the baby in the crib; her arms ached so. “If you knew how to do anything you might help me with all this sewin’.” She laid one knotty hand on a heap of it piled beside her. “I don’t know how, but I will hire that part of it done, which you think I should do,” she said gently, looking straight at the woman. “When cousin John wouldn’t take any money for my board, I asked him to let me work for the worth of it. I didn’t ask him to make it easy for me. He has a big family. I wanted to earn my way.” “He does think you try to earn it,” she admitted generously, “but I think it’s mighty easy for you myself. You ought to be very thankful. Look at the time you have--the whole blessed evenin’. You have nothin’ but to help Jenny with the children, and the cookin’ and the milkin’--what’s three cows to milk? I have seen the day, before the family was so big, when I could do all the work on the place and not half try.” Esther made a brave effort to control the strong spirit within her. From the start the other had persisted in misinterpreting her emotions, misunderstanding her ambitions. She kept guard of herself, for this was her cousin’s wife. “When do you get the mail out here?” Esther tried to change the subject. “When do we get the mail?” she repeated with intense disgust. “Every time we send to mill, that’s four or five times a year too often, to get those papers that John will take; readin’ those vile things is the ruination of the country. I keep ’em from the children the same as if they were scorpions. As for letters, we don’t get many. Most people we care about live closer to us than the post office. You lookin’ for any?” “I’d like to get one.” “From that college man? I reckon he’s forgot you are in existence.” “I shouldn’t wonder,” Esther said, with an indifferent show of pride. “He was curious looking to me; the way he wore his hair was abominable.” “He’s my friend. I’d rather not talk of him.” “That’s no reason he’s too good to be talked about.” “As you please.” Reaching for her hat Esther started toward the door. “You’d better let ’lone fightin’ for him and learn some common sense. You’d never get married if men knew how little account you was. When I was your age I’d been married three years,” she said, proudly. “If you don’t want to be an old maid you’d better settle down and marry.” Esther closed the door as she uttered the last word. “Marry? What? A plowboy, a pedler, or a washing machine agent?” That would have been her cousin’s wife’s idea. She wondered as she said this to herself what had become of all those people we hear of who “married and lived happily ever afterward.” A sob caught in her throat, and she almost ran until she was out of sight and sound of the woman’s voice.