Miss Mayhew stood in the doorway, her rough short skirt and stout boots and red sweater all saying "I'm going for a walk," even before she did. Only she adds: "I wanted to let you know I don't think I'll get back for supper." "Such a boarder I never saw," I says. "You don't eat enough for a bird when you're here. And when you ain't, you're off gallivanting over the hills with nothing whatever to eat. And me with a fresh spice-cake just out of the oven for your supper." "I'm so sorry," Miss Mayhew says, penitent to see. I laid down my work. "You let me put you up a couple o' pieces to nibble on," says I. "You're so good. May I come too?" Miss Mayhew asks, and smiled bright at the other two women, who smiled back broad and almost tender--Miss Mayhew's smile made you do that. "I s'pose them writing folks can't stop to think of food," Mis' Toplady says as we went out. "Look at her lugging a book. What's she want to be bothered with that for?" Mis' Holcomb says. But that kind of fault-finding don't necessarily mean unkindness. With us it was as natural as a glance. Out in the kitchen, I, having wrapped two nice slices of spice cake and put them in Miss Mayhew's hand, looked up at her and was shook up considerable to see that her eyes were filled with tears. I know I'm real blunt when I'm embarrassed or trying to be funny, but when it comes to tears I'm more to home. So I just put my hand on the girl's shoulder and waited for her to speak. "It's nothing," Miss Mayhew says back to the question I didn't ask. "I--I--" she sobbed out quite open. "I'm all right," she ends, and put up her head like a banner. To the two women in my sitting-room I didn't say a word of that moment, when I went back to them. But what I did say acted kind of electric. "Now," says I, "day before yesterday was my sweeping day for the chambers. But I hated to disturb her, she set there scribbling so hard when I stuck my head in. She ain't been out of the house since. If you'll excuse me, I'll whisk right up there and sweep out now." The women begun folding their work. "Why, don't hurry yourselves!" I says. "Sit and visit till I get through, why don't you?" "Go!" says Mis' Toplady. "We ain't a-going. We're going to help." "I been dying to get up-stairs in that room ever since I see her fix it up," Miss Holcomb lets out, candid. Miss Mayhew's room--she'd been renting my front chamber for a month now--was little and bare, but her daintiness was there, like her saying something. And the two women began looking things over--the books, the pictures--"prints," Miss Mayhew called them--the china tea-cups, the silver-topped bottles, and the silver and ivory toilet stuff. "My, what a homely picture!" Mis' Holcomb says, looking at a scene of a Japanese lady and a mountain. "What in the world is these forceps for?" says Mis' Toplady, balancing an ivory glove-stretcher with Miss Mayhew's initials on. I knew that it was, because I'd asked her.