She fortified herself with stronger tea, and sat grimly down to knit. The minutes and the half-hours passed. She rose, from time to time, and fed the fire, and once, at eleven, when a cold rain began, she put her face to the pane. "Dark as pitch!" she muttered. "If anybody's comin', they couldn't see their way." Then she lighted another lamp and set it in the window. It was a quarter before twelve when her trembling hands failed her, and she laid down her knitting and walked to the front door. The northeast wind whipped her in the face, and she could hear the surf at Breakers' Edge. The pathway of light from the window lay upon a figure by the gate. A voice came out of the stillness. It was young and frank. "I'm holdin' up your fence, to rest a spell. I've given my ankle a twist somehow." Hetty ran out into the storm, and the wind lashed strands of hair into her eyes. She stretched a hand over the fence, and laid it on the man's shoulder. "Who be you?" she demanded. He laughed. "I'll tell you, if you won't bat me for it. I'm your own nephew, near as I can make out." "Susan's son?" "Yes. Much as my life's worth, ain't it? Never saw anything like you an' mother when you get fightin',--reg'lar old barnyard fowls." She gripped his shoulder tightly. Her voice had a sob in it, and a prayer. "You got anything for me?" He answered wonderingly. "Why, no, I don't know 's I have. My ankle's busted, that's all. I guess I can crawl along in a minute." She remembered how fast the clock was getting on toward midnight, and spoke in dull civility. "You come in. I'll bandage ye up. Mebbe 'twill save ye a sprain." Later, when he was by the fire and she had done skillful work with water and cotton cloth, and the pain would let him, he looked at her again. "You an' mother ain't no more alike than a black an' a maltee," he said. "Hullo! what you cryin' for?" The tears were splashing her swift hands. "I dunno," she answered shortly. "Yes, I do, too. You speak some like Willard." The clock was striking two when she went to bed, and she slept at once. It was necessary, she told herself. There was a man in the west room, and his ankle was hurt, and she must get up early to call the doctor. The next day and the next went like moments of a familiar dream. The doctor came, and the boy--he was twenty-six, but he seemed only a boy--joked while he winced, and owned he had nothing to do, and could easily lie still a spell, if aunt Het would keep him. She was sorry over the hurt, and, knowing no other compensation for a man's idleness, began to cook delicate things for his eating. He laughed at everything, even at her when she was too solicitous. But he was sorry for her, and when she spoke of Willard his face softened. She thought sometimes of what she had heard about him before he came; and one April day, when they were out in the yard together, he leaning on his cane and she sweeping the grass, she spoke involuntarily:-- "I can't hardly believe it."