She saw nothing but the glare of those windows and the light streaming out when the doors opened. She heard nothing but the torturing blare of the music. After awhile something commenced beating painfully in her throat and temples. Her limbs grew stiff—she was scarcely conscious that they ached. Once she shuddered strongly, as dogs do when they lie in the cold, waiting. At twelve o’clock Mr. Jenkins touched her kindly on the arm. She looked up with a start. Her face was gray and old; her eyes were almost wild in their strained despair. “I guess I’ll have to shet up now, Mis’ Dupen,” he said apologetically. “I’m sorry—” She got down from the stool at once. “I can’t take them things,” she said, almost whispering. “I hate to of put yuh to all that trouble of doin’ ’em up. I thought—but I can’t take ’em. I hope yuh won’t mind—very much.” Her bony fingers twisted together under her thin shawl. “Oh, that’s all right,” said Mr. Jenkins in an embarrassed way. She moved stiffly to the door. He put out the lights and followed her. He felt mean, somehow. For one second he hesitated, then he locked the door, and gave it a shake to make sure that it was all right. “Well,” he said, “good night. I wish you a mer—” “Good night,” said the woman. She was turning away when the doors of the saloon opened for two or three men to enter. The music, which had ceased for a few minutes, struck up another air—a familiar air. She burst suddenly into wild and terrible laughter. “Oh, my Lord,” she cried out, “they’re a-playin’ ‘Home, Sweet Home!’ _In there!_ Oh, my Lord! _Wouldn’t that kill yuh!_” THE TAKIN’ IN OF OLD MIS’ LANE THE TAKIN’ IN OF OLD MIS’ LANE “Huhy! Huhy! Pleg take that muley cow! Huhy!” “What she doin’, maw?” “Why, she’s just a-holdin’ her head over the bars, an’ a-bawlin’! Tryin’ to get into the little correll where her ca’f is! I wish paw ’d of done as I told him an’ put her into the up meadow. If there’s anything on earth I abominate it’s to hear a cow bawl.” Mrs. Bridges gathered up several sticks of wood from the box in the corner by the stove, and going out into the yard, threw them with powerful movements of her bare arm in the direction of the bars. The cow lowered her hornless head and shook it defiantly at her, but held her ground. Isaphene stood in the open door, laughing. She was making a cake. She beat the mixture with a long-handled tin spoon while watching the fruitless attack. She had reddish brown hair that swept away from her brow and temples in waves so deep you could have lost your finger in any one of them; and good, honest gray eyes, and a mouth that was worth kissing. She wore a blue cotton gown that looked as if it had just left the ironing-table. Her sleeves were rolled to her elbows. “It don’t do any good, maw,” she said, as her mother returned with a defeated air. “She just bawls an’ shakes her head right in your face. Look at her!”