“I am sorry,” replied the man, “but I cannot stay.” The woman sat down in her chair. “How you'll git on with ole Nicholas, I don't see,” she said. “He will not be there,” said the man. “Not be there!” the woman repeated. “No,” replied the man, “he is going away.” The woman's face became, on the instant, incredulous. The little girl, standing beside the man, saw it and shook her head. The woman, her mouth open, her chin lifted, marked the signal and respected it. She dropped her hands into her lap. “Well!” she said, and after a moment, to establish her composure, “you can't go on to ole Nicholas' to-night,--it's dark now.” “I am going to the schoolhouse tonight,” replied the man. “You're more'n welcome to stay with us,” said the woman, “if you'll stay.” The man had now finished his supper, and he rose. “I know that,” he said, “you are very kind to me.” The woman got up and went to the door. “Dear me,” she said, “I hate to see you goin' out in the night.” The man stopped to kiss the little girl. “I don't mind the night,” he said. “I have some things to do.” “The schoolhouse will need cleanin' up,” said the woman, “an' to-morrow's Sunday. I ought to a-helped you clean it.” “You have already helped me more than you realize,” replied the man. “If I need further help, another will help me.” Then he went down into the road. There was no moon, but under the brilliant stars, the road became a vague white way, leading the stranger up into the deeps of the forest. The woman remained standing in the door. Presently the little girl spoke. “Mother,” she said, “the Teacher has no clothes, he didn't even have a little bundle.” The woman came back to the table. She stood a moment with her hand resting on her hip. “That's so,” she said. “I reckon he didn't bring any. Carryin' things gits powerful tiresome, when you come a long ways.” Then the dominant quality in the woman--the instinct to find a resource for every condition that arose, moved her. She went over to the fireplace, above which, on the high mantel shelf sat an ancient clock. She stood on her tiptoes, opened the clock door, and took out a little brass key, then she crossed to the foot of the bed, stooped and dragged a little old horsehide trunk out into the floor. She fitted the key into the lock, but it was rusted and would not turn. The trunk had not been opened for many years. She came back to the table and rubbed the key with melted tallow from the candle. “There are some fine shirts in that trunk that we could give him,” she said. “Your grandma give them to your pap at our infair. She made them herself. But he never wore them. He said, they was too fine to skuff out. An' they've laid there for ten years. They're a heap too big for the Teacher. Your pap was twice as big as he is. But I can cut off the sleeves and take up the neckband, so he can wear them. They're good linen. Your grandma was mighty handy.”