"I knew you liked it, dear," she said, "and I had forgot all about it; and then it flashed on me, and I thought, Diana will like to have it for her dinner; and I guess it'll have time to cool. Just put it in a tin pail, dear, and hang it down in the well; and it'll be fresh." This was done, and Diana came in and took a seat by her old friend. "You needn't do that for me, Mother Bartlett. I don't care what I have to eat." "Most folks like what is good," said the old lady; "suppos'n they know it." "Yes, and so do I, but"-- "I made a pot-pie for ye," the old lady went on contentedly. "And I suppose you have left nothing at all for me to do, as usual. It is too bad, Mother Bartlett." "You shall do all the rest," said her friend; "and now you may talk to me." She was a trim little old woman, not near so tall as her visitor; very wrinkled, but fresh-skinned, and with a quick grey eye. Her dress was a common working dress of some dark stuff; coarse, but tidy and nice-looking; her cap white and plain; she sat in her arm-chair, setting her little feet to the fire, and her fingers merrily clicking her needles together; a very comfortable vision. The kitchen and its furniture were as neat as a pin. "I don't see how you manage, Mother Bartlett," Diana went on, glancing around. "You ought to have some one to live with you and help you. It looks as if you had half a dozen." "Not much," said the old lady, laughing. "A half dozen would soon make a muss, of one sort or another. There's nothin' like having nobody." "But you might be sick." "I might be;--but I ain't," said Mrs. Bartlett, running one end of a knitting-needle under her cap and looking placidly at Diana. "But you might want somebody." "When I do I send for 'em. I sent for you to-day, child; and here you are." "But you are quite well to-day?" said Diana a little anxiously. "I am always well. Never better." "How old are you, Mother Bartlett?" "Seventy-three years, child." "Well, I do think you oughtn't to be here alone. It don't seem right, and I don't think it is right." "What's to do, child? There ain't nary one to come and live with me. They're all gone but Joe. My Lord knows I'm an old woman seventy-three years of age." "What then, Mother Bartlett?" Diana asked curiously. "He'll take care of me, my dear." "But then, we ought to take care of ourselves," said Diana. "Now if Joe would marry somebody"-- "Joe ain't lucky in that line," said the old lady laughing again. "And may be what he might like, I mightn't. Before you go to wishin' for changes, you'd better know what they'll be. I'm content child. There ain't a thing on earth I want that I haven't got. Now what's the news?" Diana began and told her the whole story of the sewing meeting and the accident and the nursing of the injured girl. Mrs. Bartlett had an intense interest in every particular; and what Diana failed to remember, her questions brought out. "And how do you like the new minister?"