"Certaintly she does. I sometimes think it’s a kinda pity a body can’t lick her good, an’ put her to bed ’to await the results of her injuries,’ as the papers says. But what’s the use o’ growin’ old, if your white hairs don’t bring you the respec’ your black ones didn’t? No, we gotta bear with Ma, Sam, an’ it’s better grin than groan, while we’re doin’ it." So, when the appointed day arrived, it was Ma, not Martha, who accompanied Sam to New York on his "wedding-tour." "My! I bet it’s hot on the train!" exclaimed Cora, appearing after a prolonged absence, seating herself on the doorstep, from which the late afternoon sun had just departed, fanning her flushed face with her hat. For the first time during the busy day, Martha paused long enough to listen. "I guess it’s a hunderd in the shade," she observed. "But then, o’ course, you don’t have to stay in the shade, less you wanta." Literal Cora, taking her seriously, came in out of the shade. "Mother, do you know something?" Martha considered. "Well, when I was your age, I thought I did. But now, the only thing I know, is, I _don’t_." Cora pursed her lips. "Do you know, I think Dr. Ballard likes Miss Crewe a lot." "What makes you think so?" "Well, the other day, I saw’m walkin’ together down Cherry Lane. An’ to-day I saw’m again. An’ I think it looks awful loverish to be walkin’ in Cherry Lane, where the trees branch over so, an’ it’s all quiet, an’ green, an’ lonesome, an’ nobody hardly ever comes, exceptin’——" "Snoopy little girls who’ve no business there," supplied her mother genially. Cora sniffed. "Well, I guess you’ll be glad I was there, when you see what I got. An’ I guess they’ll be glad too. One of’m dropped it an’ never noticed, an’ went off, an’ left it lyin’ in the middle o’ the lane. After they’d gone, I saw somethin’ kind o’ like a yellow spot sittin’ up in the grass, an’ I went an’ picked it up, an’ it was a bunch o’ letters, tied with a pink ribbon. The ribbon’s so old it most frays away before you touch it." Martha extended a quiet, but coercive palm. "Hand it over." Cora obeyed, craning her neck to see the last of the fascinating sheaf. "Ain’t it funny writin’?" she inquired. "’Mifter Daniel Ballard.’ What does _Mifter_ mean, mother? She don’t call him _Mifter_ inside. She calls him, ’Beloved Daniel.’" "How do you know?" Cora hung her head. "I peeked," she confessed. "How many of the letters did you peek at?"