"My dear," she said, "what you have is too good for us. And if you do such a thing again, I shall be very angry. "Lord, ma'am," exclaimed Polly Ann, "and you use' ter dainties an' silver an' linen! Tom is gone to try to git a turkey for ye." She paused, and looked compassionately at the lady. "Bless ye, ma'am, ye're that tuckered from the mountains! 'Tis a fearsome journey." "Yes," said the lady, simply, "I am tired." "Small wonder!" exclaimed Polly Ann. "To think what ye've been through--yere husband near to dyin' afore yere eyes, and ye a-reskin' yere own life to save him--so Tom tells me. When Tom goes out a-fightin' red-skins I'm that fidgety I can't set still. I wouldn't let him know what I feel fer the world. But well ye know the pain of it, who love yere husband like that." The lady would have smiled bravely, had the strength been given her. She tried. And then, with a shudder, she hid her face in her hands. "Oh, don't!" she exclaimed, "don't!" Mr. Riddle went out. "There, there, ma'am," she said, "I hedn't no right ter speak, and ye fair worn out." She drew her gently into a chair. "Set down, ma'am, and don't ye stir tell supper's ready." She brushed her eyes with her sleeve, and, stepping briskly to my bed, bent over me. "Davy," she said, "Davy, how be ye?" "Davy!" It was the lady's voice. She stood facing us, and never while I live shall I forget that which I saw in her eyes. Some resemblance it bore to the look of the hunted deer, but in the animal it is dumb, appealing. Understanding made the look of the woman terrible to behold,-- understanding, ay, and courage. For she did not lack this last quality. Polly Ann gave back in a kind of dismay, and I shivered. "Yes," I answered, "I am David Ritchie." "You--you dare to judge me!" she cried. I knew not why she said this. "To judge you?" I repeated. "Yes, to judge me," she answered. "I know you, David Ritchie, and the blood that runs in you. Your mother was a foolish--saint" (she laughed), "who lifted her eyebrows when I married her brother, John Temple. That was her condemnation of me, and it stung me more than had a thousand sermons. A doting saint, because she followed your father into the mountain wilds to her death for a whim of his. And your father. A Calvinist fanatic who had no mercy on sin, save for that particular weakness of his own--" "Stop, Mrs. Temple!" I cried, lifting up in bed. And to my astonishment she was silenced, looking at me in amazement. "You had your vengeance when I came to you, when you turned from me with a lift of your shoulders at the news of my father's death. And now--" "And now?" she repeated questioningly. "Now I thought you were changed," I said slowly, for the excitement was telling on me. "You listened!" she said. "I pitied you." "Oh, pity!" she cried. "My God, that you should pity me!" She straightened, and summoned all the spirit that was in her. "I would rather be called a name than have the pity of you and yours."