“Behind the org’n. You can get out the wax cross again. Mis’ Dillon was here with all her childern, an’ I had to hide up ev’rything. I never see childern like her’n. She lets ’em handle things so!” Mrs. Endey went into the “front room” and began to dust the organ. She was something of a diplomat, and she wished to be alone for a few minutes. “You have to manage Emarine by contrairies,” she reflected. It did not occur to her that this was a family trait. “I’m offul sorry I ever egged her on to turnin’ Orville’s mother out o’ doors, but who’d ’a’ thought it ’u’d break her down so? She ain’t told a soul either. I reckoned she’d talk somethin’ offul about us, but she ain’t told a soul. She’s kep’ a stiff upper lip an’ told folks she al’ays expected to live alone when Orville got married. Emarine’s all worked up. I believe the Lord hisself must ’a’ sent gran’ma Eliot here to talk like an angel unawares. I bet she’d go an’ ask Mis’ Parmer over here to dinner if she wa’n’t afraid I’d laff at her fer knucklin’-down. I’ll have to aggravate her.” She finished dusting, and returned to the kitchen. “I wonder what gran’ma Eliot ’u’d say if she knew you’d turned Orville’s mother out, Emarine?” There was no reply. Emarine was at the table mixing the plum pudding. Her back was to her mother. “I didn’t mean what I said about bein’ sorry I egged you on, Emarine. I’m glad you turned her out. She’d _ort_ to be turned out.” Emarine put a handful of floured raisins into the mixture and stirred it all together briskly. “Gran’ma Eliot can go talkin’ about her daughter-in-law Sidonie all she wants, Emarine. You keep a stiff upper lip.” “I can ’tend to my own affairs,” said Emarine, fiercely. “Well, don’t flare up so. Here comes Orville. Land, but he does look peakid!” * * * * * After supper, when her mother had gone home for the night, Emarine put on her hat and shawl. Her husband was sitting by the fireplace, looking thoughtfully at the bed of coals. “I’m goin’ out,” she said, briefly. “You keep the fire up.” “Why, Emarine, its dark. Don’t choo want I sh’u’d go along?” “No; you keep the fire up.” He looked at her anxiously, but he knew from the way she set her heels down that remonstrance would be useless. “Don’t stay long,” he said, in a tone of habitual tenderness. He loved her passionately, in spite of the lasting hurt she had given him when she parted him from his mother. It was a hurt that had sunk deeper than even he realized. It lay heavy on his heart day and night. It took the blue out of the sky, and the green out of the grass, and the gold out of the sunlight; it took the exaltation and the rapture out of his tenderest moments of love. He never reproached her, he never really blamed her; certainly he never pitied himself. But he carried a heavy heart around with him, and his few smiles were joyless things.