"Flicker? Goodness! Flicker’s the peaceablest party of us all. He wouldn’t be a mite o’ perfection, even if we’d let’m out. Since we first took’m off’n the street, Flicker thinks everybody means well by’m. He’d never get over the shock if somebody treated’m low down. He just wouldn’t _believe_ it, that’s all. But anyhow, Sam (my husband) he’s been obliged to set some traps for the foxes that prowels ’round after Mr. Ronaldses hens an’ ours, an’ we’re afraid Flicker might get caught in one, if we’d leave’m run free nights." Acting on Madam Crewe’s gentle hint, Martha proceeded to take herself off. She had not really thought of Buller with any apprehension, but as she walked along the dark, lonely road, the suggestion worked, and she fancied him lying in wait for her behind "any old ambush growin’ by the way, ready to spring," as she told herself. This did not prevent her from tramping on when, at last, she reached her own door, and realized she was out of yeast, and Cora had need of some for the night’s "raisin’." Mrs. Lentz "admired" to let her have the loan of a cake. Martha chatted a while, then started away, this time headed directly for home. She had gone but a short distance, the length of a city block perhaps, when, suddenly, she came to a standstill. "Who’s there?" she demanded sternly. Her voice sounded unfamiliar, even to her own ears. She attempted to flash her lantern-light into the inky blackness of the thicket hedging the road-bank. "Who’s there?" she repeated. Silence. For a second, she doubted her own instinct, and was on the point of passing sheepishly on, ashamed of her childishness, when a sinister rustle in the shadow brought her, as it were, up standing again, instantly alert, on the defensive. "Who’s there?" rang out for the third time. "If you don’t speak or show this minute, I’ll come an’ fetch you." The rustle increased. A blotch of shadow detached itself from its vague background, and a huddled shape inched forward, like a magnified beetle. Martha held her lantern up as she took a step forward to meet the thing. "MA!" she exploded. Then—— "Well, what do you think o’ that!" "O—oh, Martha!" The next minute the magnified beetle was passionately clinging to "me son Sammy’s wife," as if there were no other anchorage in all the world. "But for the love o’ Mike, Ma, how come you here? You’re shakin’ like an ash-pan. You’re all done up. Never mind tellin’ me now. When we’re home is time enough." Fairly carrying the poor, limp creature, heartening her, soothing her, Martha got her, at last, to the Lodge, set her in Sam’s chair, with the comforting _pilla_ to rest the _holla_ in her back, brought her the reinforcing _cuppertee_ which, in hot weather or cold, was Ma’s greatest solace and, to crown all, sat down and listened, while she told of the dangers she had passed.