“What’s the charges agen me, Mis’ Willis?” Mrs. Willis’s eyelids fell heavily. “Why, I reckon you know, Patience. You done wrong onct when you was a girl, and I don’t think we’d ort to take you into the church tell you own up to it.” There was a little silence. Then Patience said, drawing her breath in heavily—“Mebbe I did do wrong onct when I was a little girl—only fourteen, say. But that’s thirty year ago, and that’s a long time, Mis’ Willis. I don’t think I’d ort to own up to it.” “_I_ think you’d ort.” “Mis’ Willis,”—Patience spoke solemnly. “D’you think I’d ort to own up if it ’u’d affec’ somebody else thet ain’t never b’en talked about?” “Yes, I do,” said Mrs. Willis, firmly. “If they deserve to be talked about, they’d _ort_ to be talked about.” “Even if it was about the best folks in town?” “Yes.” Mrs. Willis thought of the minister. “Even if it was about the best-off folks? Folks that hold their head the highest, and give most to churches and missionary; and thet ev’rybody looks up to?” “Ye-es,” said Mrs. Willis. That did not describe the minister, certainly. She could not have told you why her heart began to beat so violently. Somehow, she had been surprised out of the attitude she had meant to assume. Instead of walking in boldly and haughtily, and giving Patience her “come-uppings,” she was finding it difficult to conquer a feeling of pity for the enemy because she was so poor and so cold. She must harden her heart. “Even”—Patience lowered her eyes to the worn carpet—“if it was folks thet had b’en loudest condemin’ other folks’s sins, and that had bragged high and low thet there wa’n’t no disgrace in their fambly, and never had b’en none, and who’d just be about killed by my confessing-up?” “Yes,” said Mrs. Willis, sternly. But she paled to the lips. “I don’t think so,” said Patience, slowly. “I think a body’d ort to have a chance if they want to live better, without havin’ anybody a-pryin’ into their effairs exceptin’ God. But if you don’t agree with me, I’m ready to confess-up all _I’ve_ done bad. I guess you recollect, Mis’ Willis, thet your ’Lizy and me was just of an age, to a day?” Mrs. Willis’s lips moved, but the words stuck in her throat. “And how we ust to play together and stay nights with each other. We _loved_ each other, Mis’ Willis. You ust to give us big slices o’ salt-risin’ bread, spread thick with cream and sprinkled with brown sugar—I can just see you now, a-goin’ out to the spring-house to get the cream. And I can just taste it, too, when I get good and hungry.” “What’s all this got to do with your a-owning up?” demanded Mrs. Willis, fiercely. “What’s my ’Lizy got to do with your going away that time? Where was you at, Patience Appleby?”