“I never knew how it felt before,” she said; “and I’ve made a heap of silly speeches, I know. Don’t you remember that time in the Hall, when I talked about your husband being shot? I am sorry, but I _do_ think he’s more likely to be picked off than Tom, who is not nearly as tall. You are faint, ain’t you?” she added, as she saw how deathly pale Annie grew, while the drops of perspiration stood thickly about her lips. “Simpleton, simpleton!” muttered Widow Simms, listening through the keyhole in the kitchen, while Annie whispered: “Please don’t talk that way, Mrs. Mather. I know George is very tall, but unless God wills it otherwise, the bullets will pass by him as well as others.” Rose saw she had done mischief again, by her thoughtless way of speaking, and eager to repair the wrong, she bent over Annie and said: “I am sorry. I’m always doing something foolish. You are faint; shan’t I tell the servant to bring you some water? She’s in the kitchen, I suppose,” and ere Annie could explain, Rose had darted into the neat little kitchen where Widow Simms was stooping over the stove and kindling a fire, with which to make the evening tea. “Girl, girl, Mrs. Graham wants some water. Hurry and bring it quick, will you?” Rose called out a little peremptorily, for there was something rather suggestive of defiance in the square, straight back which never moved a particle in answer to the command. “Deaf or hateful,” was Rose’s mental comment, and as it might possibly be the former, she wished she knew the girl’s name, as that would be more apt to attract her. “Most every Irish girl is Bridget,” she thought to herself, “and I guess this one is. Any way she acts like the girl that used to order mother out doors, so I’ll venture upon that name.” “Bridget, Bridget!” and this time the voice was decidedly authoritative in its tone, but what more Rose might have added was cut short by the widow, who dropped the griddle with a bang, and turning sharply round, replied: “There’s no Bridget here, and if it’s me you mean, I am _Mrs. Joseph Simms_!” Rose had good reason for remembering Mrs. Simms, and coloring crimson, she tried to apologize: “I beg your pardon; I did not see your face. I supposed everybody kept a girl; and your back looked like——” “Don’t make the matter any worse,” interrupted the widow, smiling in spite of herself at Rose’s attempt to excuse her blunder. “You thought from my dress that I was a hired girl, and so I was in my younger days, and I don’t feel none the wus for it neither. Miss Graham’s faint, is she? She’s had time to get over it, I think. Here’s the water,” and filling a gourd shell she handed it to Rose, who, in her admiration of the (to her) novel drinking cup, came near forgetting Annie. But Annie did not care, for the rencounter between the widow and Rose had done her quite as much good as the water could, and Rose found her laughing the first really hearty laugh she had enjoyed since George went away.