“If there’s anything lonesomer, Eli, than outdoors at this time of year,” mused the lawyer, “it’s the empty chamber in some of the human hearts that we know about.” All the eyes of the little neighbourhood were watching the Squire when he turned in at the yard of the school house and disappeared in the entry-way. But it was chore time and supper time, and the Dunham district people went about their tasks, mumbling surmise as to what the Squire intended to do. Mrs. Micajah Dunham remained at Uncle Paul Appleby’s gate, her gimlet gaze still on the school house. There was nothing to see, but she didn’t have anything else to do. For the first time since she could remember she wasn’t busy with supper-getting at that hour of the day, and she was conscious of something lacking, something discomforting. Her hands twitched when she heard the rattle of dishes within doors. She looked across at the old home. There was no trail of smoke from the chimney. “Cold vittles is good enough for him,” she reflected bitterly. “I wisht he’d choke on what I’ve left cooked up.” Her hard gaze did not soften when she saw her husband come out of the cellar door, shoulders humped, dragging his feet spiritlessly, the milk pails dangling from his lifeless arms. A gray cat was at his heels. “I don’t want Betsy to starve along with him,” grumbled Esther, and she called stridently, “Kit-te-e-e! Kit-te-e-e! Come, kit-te-e-e!” With a feline’s deference to one who has always filled the saucer for her the cat turned and scampered over to the Appleby house, tail up. “He ain’t even fit to associate with the cat!” snapped Mrs. Dunham, and she picked up the purring creature and switched into the house. But that uncomfortable hankering for occupation, that queer little feeling of being a fifth wheel, obsessed her. “I’m goin’ to slip on one of your aprons, Mis’ Appleby,” she announced, “and help you to get supper on.” “Now you jest set right down and fold your hands, Mis’ Dunham,” remonstrated the hostess. “I don’t expect boarders to do one namable thing. No,” she said hastily, stripping the apron from Esther before she could tie it, “I’ve sort of got my own ways ’round the house jest the same’s you have around yours, and there ain’t a thing you can do to help. You go right into the settin’-room and look over the album, or anything you’re a mind to.”