“Well, what if he has? He got it with his wife, didn’t he? An’ M’lissy won’t let his poor, old mother set foot inside the house! I don’t say she is a pleasant body to have about—she’s cross an’ sick most all the time, an’ childish. But that ain’t sayin’ her childern oughtn’t to put up with her disagreeableness.” “She’s got a married daughter, ain’t she?” “Yes, she’s got a married daughter.” Mrs. Hanna closed her lips tightly together and looked as if she might say something, if she chose, that would create a sensation. “Well, ain’t she got a good enough home to keep her mother in?” “Yes, she has. But she got _her_ home along with her husband, an’ he won’t have the old soul any more ’n M’lissy would.” There was another silence. Isaphene had put the cake in the oven. She knelt on the floor and opened the door very softly now and then, to see that it was not browning too fast. The heat of the oven had crimsoned her face and arms. “Guess you’d best put a piece o’ paper on top o’ that cake,” said her mother. “It smells kind o’ burny like.” “It’s all right, maw.” Mrs. Bridges looked out the window. “Ain’t my flowers doin’ well, though, Mis’ Hanna?” “They are that. When I come up the walk I couldn’t help thinkin’ of poor, old Mis’ Lane.” “What’s that got to do with her?” Resentment bristled in Mrs. Bridges’s tone and look. Mrs. Hanna stopped crocheting, but held her hands stationary, almost level with her eyes, and looked over them in surprise at her questioner. “Why, she ust to live here, you know.” “She did! In this house?” “Why, yes. Didn’t you know that? Oh, they ust to be right well off in her husband’s time. I visited here consid’rable. My! the good things she always had to eat. I can taste ’em yet.” “Hunh! I’m sorry I can’t give you as good as she did,” said Mrs. Bridges, stiffly. “Well, as if you didn’t! You set a beautiful table, Mis’ Bridges, an’, what’s more, that’s your reputation all over. Everybody says that about you.” Mrs. Bridges smiled deprecatingly, with a slight blush of pleasure. “They do, Mis’ Bridges. I just told you about Mis’ Lane because you’d never think it now of the poor, old creature. An’ such flowers as she ust to have on both sides that walk! Lark-spurs, an’ sweet-williams, an’ bach’lor’s-buttons, an’ mournin’-widows, an’ pumgranates, an’ all kinds. Guess you didn’t know she set out that pink cabbage-rose at the north end o’ the front porch, did you? An’ that hop-vine that you’ve got trained over your parlor window—set that out, too. An’ that row o’ young alders between here an’ the barn—she set ’em all out with her own hands; dug the holes herself, an’ all. It’s funny she never told you she lived here.” “Yes, it is,” said Mrs. Bridges, slowly and thoughtfully. “It’s a wonder to me she never broke down an’ cried when she was visitin’ here. She can’t so much as mention the place without cryin’.” A dull red came into Mrs. Bridges’s face. “She never visited here.”