“The _idear_!” says Mis’ Sykes, shaking her head, with her lips disappearing within her face. “Why, she might have been clerking in the post-office store now, a nice, steady, six-dollar-a-week position just exactly like she was when it happened.” “Would you think,” says Mis’ Fire-Chief Merriman, “that living here in Friendship Village with us, anybody _could_ go wrong?” “Sepulchers in sheep’s clothing--that’s what some folks are,” says little new Mis’ Graves, righteous. And so on. And on. Hashing it all over again and eating it for cake. And me, I wasn’t silent either. I joined in here and there with a little something I’d heard. Till by the time the meeting adjourned, and we’d all agreed to meet two days later and sew on the bunting for the booths, I went home feeling so sick and hurt and sore and skinned that after dark I up and walked straight down to Lisbeth’s house. Yes. After dark. I was a poor, weak, wavering stick, and I knew it. Lisbeth came to the door. “Hello, Lisbeth,” I says. “It’s Calliope Marsh. Can I come in?” “Mother ain’t here, Mis’ Marsh,” she says faint. “Ain’t she, now?” I says. “I bet she is. I’m going inside to hunt for her.” And I walked right into the sitting-room and turned and looked at Lisbeth. If she’d been defiant, or acted don’t-care, or tossed her head, or stared at me--I donno’s I’d of had the strength to understand that these might be her poor, pitiful weapons. But as it was, her eyes looked straight into mine for a minute, and then brimmed up full of tears. So I kissed her. We sat there for an hour in the twilight--an hour I’ll never forget. And then she took me up-stairs to show me the boy. Think of the prettiest child you know. Think of the prettiest child you ever did know. Now think of him laying asleep, all curls and his cheeks flushed and his lips budded open a little bit. That was Chris. That was Little Christopher--Lisbeth’s little boy. “Miss Marsh,” Lisbeth says, “I’d rather die than not have him with me. And mother ain’t strong, and she needs me. Do you think I done wrong to come home?” “Done wrong?” I says. “Done wrong to come home? Don’t them words kind of fight each other in the sentence? Of course you didn’t do wrong. Why,” says I, “Lisbeth, this is Friendship Village’s Home-coming year. It’s Home-coming week next month, you know.” She looked at me wistful there in the dark beside the child’s bed. “Oh, not for me,” she says. “This house is my home--but this town ain’t any more. It don’t want me.”