Isaphene stooped and peered cautiously through the wild cucumber vines that rioted over the kitchen window. “Oh, it’s Mis’ Hanna!” “My goodness! An’ the way this house looks! You’ll have to bring her out here ’n the kitchen, too. I s’pose she’s come to spend the day—she’s got her bag with her, ain’t she?” “Yes. What’ll we have for dinner? I ain’t goin’ to cut this cake for her. I want this for Sund’y.” “Why, we’ve got corn beef to boil, an’ a head o’ cabbage; an’ these here beans; an’, of course, potatoes; an’ watermelon perserves. An’ you can make a custerd pie. I guess that’s a good enough dinner for her. There! She’s knockin’. Open the door, can’t you? Well, if I ever! Look at that grease-spot on the floor!” “Well, I didn’t spill it.” “Who did, then, missy?” “Well, _I_ never.” Isaphene went to the front door, returning presently with a tall, thin lady. “Here’s Mis’ Hanna, maw,” she said, with the air of having made a pleasant discovery. Mrs. Bridges got up, greatly surprised, and shook hands with her visitor with exaggerated delight. “Well, I’ll declare! It’s really you, is it? At last! Well, set right down an’ take off your things. Isaphene, take Mis’ Hanna’s things. My! ain’t it warm, walkin’?” “It is so.” The visitor gave her bonnet to Isaphene, dropping her black mitts into it after rolling them carefully together. “But it’s always nice an’ cool in your kitchen.” Her eyes wandered about with a look of unabashed curiosity that took in everything. “I brought my crochet with me.” “I’m glad you did. You’ll have to excuse the looks o’ things. Any news?” “None perticular.” Mrs. Hanna began to crochet, holding the work close to her face. “Ain’t it too bad about poor, old Mis’ Lane?” “What about her?” Mrs. Bridges snapped a bean-pod into three pieces, and looked at her visitor with a kind of pleased expectancy—as if almost any news, however dreadful, would be welcome as a relief to the monotony of existence. “Is she dead?” “No, she ain’t dead; but the poor, old creature ’d better be. She’s got to go to the poor-farm, after all.” There was silence in the big kitchen, save for the rasp of the crochet needle through the wool and the snapping of the beans. A soft wind came in the window and drummed with the lightest of touches on Mrs. Bridges’s temples. It brought all the sweets of the old-fashioned flower-garden with it—the mingled breaths of mignonette, stock, sweet lavender, sweet peas and clove pinks. The whole kitchen was filled with the fragrance. And what a big, cheerful kitchen it was! Mrs. Bridges contrasted it unconsciously with the poor-farm kitchen, and almost shivered, warm though the day was. “What’s her childern about?” she asked, sharply. “Oh, her childern!” replied Mrs. Hanna, with a contemptuous air. “What does her childern amount to, I’d like to know.” “Her son’s got a good, comf’table house an’ farm.”