“Bless my life!” said the woman. “I didn't hear you.” She handed the child the bowl. “Run along to the spring house and git some butter.” The woman went back into the room, got a tallow candle, squeezed it into an old brass candlestick, and set it on the table. In a moment the little girl returned with the butter. She regarded the table for a moment, then she removed the old blue plate, drew out from under the bed a store box with a lid fastened with leather hinges--evidently her private chest--took out a plate, washed it with boiling water from the teakettle, and set it on the table. It was a little, cheap, porcelain plate with the letters of the alphabet raised around the rim. The woman watched the child with a certain smiling condescension. Then she went to the door, wiped her hands on her apron, stood back by the doorpost, and spoke to the man. “Now,” she said, “if you'll come in to supper.” The man got up, came into the room, and sat down at the table. Before him on the clean linen cloth were honey, brown corncakes, and a goblet of milk. The light of the candle seemed to gather and illumine his face; and curiously to bring out in his brown hair those touches of living yellow which the sun had so strikingly indicated on this afternoon. And more curiously, too, there was no stain of travel, no evidence of fatigue on the man. Instead of it, there was an abiding glow of fresh, vital, alluring youth. The woman moved about, setting the room in order, the little girl stood by the man's chair. Presently the woman finished and came over to the table, bringing with her a heavy, hickory, split-bottom chair. She stopped, snuffed the candle, and then sat down opposite the man. Her hands, as though accustomed to constant occupation, wandered to the table, smoothed the cloth by stretching the two corners, flicked away invisible dust. Finally she spoke. “You're goin' to board around, I 'spose.” “No,” replied the man, “I'm going to stay at Nicholas Parks' house.” The woman dropped her hands into her lap. Her mouth opened with astonishment. “Not with ole Nicholas!” she said. “Why, the devil couldn't live with ole Nicholas! He's the meanest man that ever drawed the breath of life! He wouldn't give you a meal's vittels if it was to save you from dying!” She arose to her feet. “Dear me!” she said, “that won't do at all.” She walked about the room moving articles of furniture, and crumpling her apron in her fat hands. Finally she came back to the table. “It ain't cold,” she said, “an' if you could sleep in the mill loft, you could stay right here with us.” She hastened to explain. “You could help me grind on Saturdays--that's the busiest day, an' maybe, if you're handy with tools, you could patch up the mill some. The wheel needs a new paddle, an' you could board up the loft, an' you could put in some steps.” The man listened. “Yes,” he said, “I can work with tools; I will do these things for you.” “Then you'll stay,” said the woman.