The woman continued to regard the men standing in the road. Finally she spoke, swinging her body a moment on her sturdy legs. “You're the new School-teacher, I reckon.” The man replied, without moving. “Yes,” he said. “You're a little behindhand.” “Yes.” “You've come a good piece to-day, I reckon.” “A long way.” The woman took her fat right hand from her hips, and began to brush the skirt of her calico dress, although there was nothing on it to remove. “Well,” she said, “you better come in and git your supper.” The man turned and faced the woman. His features appeared by a powerful effort to exclude something which he wished not to show and had been until this moment not wholly able to conceal. “You are very kind,” he said. “I am hungry.” “Just set down on the porch.” said the woman. “We've had our supper, but I'll git you a bite.” The man came over and sat down, his hands idly on his knees, his face looking out toward the mountains. The woman began her preparations for the stranger's meal. She entered the room where the wooden table stood, crossed to a cupboard, opened it and took out some dishes. These she began to put on the table. Then she stopped and stood with her hands resting on her hips. A moment later she removed the dishes, went over to a chest, standing in the corner, lifted the lid, took out a clean homespun linen cloth, and spread it over the table. As she moved about she talked. “When are you goin' to begin school?” “Monday morning,” replied the man. “Word ought to be sent 'round.” “I think the children will come.” “They'll come when they know it, an' they'll know it purty soon; news travels powerful fast. We looked for you yesterday.” “Yes.” “Somethin' kept you back, I s'pose.” “Yes.” “Well, there's allers somethin' to happen. You won't have much of a school, I expect. The big boys have all gone off to the sawmills, an' the big girls are helpin' with the work. It's a mighty busy time.” “I would rather have the little children.” “They're a heap of bother.” “I don't think I shall mind the bother.” “Don't you? Most people do. They're harder to teach than the big ones, ain't they?” “I think they are easier to teach.” “Do you? What makes you think they're easier to teach?” “They understand me better,” replied the man. The woman had taken down an old glass bowl with a notched glass cover from the top shelf of the cupboard, rinsed it with water, wiped it carefully and set it on the table. In this she had placed a comb of red, mountain honey. She continued to talk. “I want Martha to go to school. She's a-goin' on nine. I can't spare her very well, but I don't want to keep her back. She saves me a good many steps. She's gone after the cow. She ought to be comin'.” The woman was busy at the stove.