“Never visited here!” Mrs. Hanna laid her crochet and her hands in her lap, and stared. “Why, she visited ev’rywhere. That’s how she managed to keep out o’ the poor-house so long. Ev’rybody was reel consid’rate about invitin’ her. But I expect she didn’t like to come here because she thought so much o’ the place.” Isaphene looked over her shoulder at her mother, but the look was not returned. The beans were sputtering nervously into the pan. “Ain’t you got about enough, maw?” she said. “That pan seems to be gettin’ hefty.” “Yes, I guess.” She got up, brushing the strings off her apron, and set the pan on the table. “I’ll watch the cake now, Isaphene. You put the beans on in the pot to boil. Put a piece o’ that salt pork in with ’em. Better get ’em on right away. It’s pretty near eleven. Ain’t this oven too hot with the door shet?” Then the pleasant preparations for dinner went on. The beans soon commenced to boil, and an appetizing odor floated through the kitchen. The potatoes were pared—big, white fellows, smooth and long—with a sharp, thin knife, round and round and round, each without a break until the whole paring had curled itself about Isaphene’s pretty arm almost to the elbow. The cabbage was chopped finely for the cold-slaw, and the vinegar and butter set on the stove in a saucepan to heat. Then Mrs. Bridges “set” the table, covering it first with a red cloth having a white border and fringe. In the middle of the table she placed an uncommonly large, six-bottled caster. “I guess you’ll excuse a red tablecloth, Mis’ Hanna. The men-folks get their shirt-sleeves so dirty out in the fields that you can’t keep a white one clean no time.” “I use red ones myself most of the time,” replied Mrs. Hanna, crocheting industriously. “It saves washin’. I guess poor Mis’ Lane’ll have to see the old place after all these years, whether she wants or not. They’ll take her right past here to the poor-farm.” Mrs. Bridges set on the table a white plate holding a big square of yellow butter, and stood looking through the open door, down the path with its tall hollyhocks and scarlet poppies on both sides. Between the house and the barn some wild mustard had grown, thick and tall, and was now drifting, like a golden cloud, against the pale blue sky. Butterflies were throbbing through the air, and grasshoppers were crackling everywhere. It was all very pleasant and peaceful; while the comfortable house and barns, the wide fields stretching away to the forest, and the cattle feeding on the hillside added an appearance of prosperity. Mrs. Bridges wondered how she herself would feel—after having loved the place—riding by to the poor-farm. Then she pulled herself together and said, sharply: “I’m afraid you feel a draught, Mis’ Hanna, a-settin’ so clost to the door.” “Oh, my, no; I like it. I like lots o’ fresh air. Can’t get it any too fresh for me. If I didn’t have six childern an’ my own mother to keep, I’d take her myself.”