“See them little specks and squirmy things?” Emmy saw them. She followed their wavering motion in the glass as the stern forefinger pointed. “Those are little baby snakes,” said Becky mysteriously. “The well is full of 'em. Sometimes you can see 'em, sometimes you can't, but they're always there. They never grow big down the well; it's too dark 'n' cold. But you drink that water and the snakes will grow and wriggle and work all through ye, and eat your insides out, and you'll die. Your mother”--in a whisper--“she drunk that water, and she died. Your sister Ruth, and Dirck, and Jimmy, they drunk it, and they died. Now if Emmy wants to die”--Large eyes of horror fastened on the speaker's face. “No--o, she don't want to die, the Loveums! She don't want Becky to have no little girl left at all! No; we mustn't ever drink any of that bad water--all full of snakes, ugh! But if Emmy's thirsty, see here! Here's good nice water. It's going to be always here in this pail--same water the little lambs drink up in the fields. Becky 'll take Emmy up on the hill sometime and show where the little lambs drink.” Grief had not clouded the farmer's oversight in petty things. He noticed the innocent pail on the area bench, never empty, always specklessly clean. “What is this water?” he asked. Becky was surly. “Drinking water. Want some?” “What's it doing here all the time?” “I set it there for Emmy. She can't reach up to the bucket.” Abraham tasted the water suspiciously. The well-water was hard, with a tang of iron. The spring soft, and less cold for its journey to the barn. “Where did you get this water?” “Help yourself. There's plenty more.” “Becky, where did this water come from? Out o' the well?” Becky gave a snort of exasperation. “Sam Lewis brought it from the barn! I'm too lame to be histin' buckets. I've got the rheumatiz' awful in my back and shoulders, if ye want to know!” “Becky, you're lying to me. You've been listening to what don't concern you. Now, see here. You are not going to ask the men to carry water for you. They've got something else to do. _There's_ your water, as handy as ever a woman had it; use that or go without.” Abraham caught up the pail and flung its contents out upon the grass, scattering the hens that came sidling back with squawks of inquiring temerity. When next Emmy came for water, the old woman took her by the hand in silence and led her into the dim meat-cellar, a half-basement with one low window level with the grass. There was the pail, safe hidden behind the soft-soap barrel.