Sally, with something like an impatient jerk, lifted from the stove the steaming kettle and poured a part of the hot contents into the dish-pan on the table, but she made no answer, though soon the clatter of tins and dishes--perhaps they rattled a little louder than usual--mingled as a sort of accompaniment to the reminiscent monologue that Mrs. Brown carried on at intervals during her work. "It's all owin' to the Squire's kindness an' interest in us that we're fixed this comfortable, for, dear knows I'd never got the toll-gate in the first place if it hadn't been for his influence, an' now, if you'd only give him any encouragement at all, you might be a grand sight better off. Such chances don't grow as thick as blackberries in summer, I can tell you." The dishes and tins rattled angrily, but Sally said not a word. "About the only good showin' a poor gyurl has in this world is to marry as well as she can, an' when she neglects to do this, she's got nobody to blame but herself--not a soul." Sally had the dishes all washed and laid in a row on the table to drain, and now she caught them up, one by one, and began to polish away vigorously, as if the effort afforded a certain relief to her feelings, since she had chosen to take refuge in silence. "S'posin' he _is_ old an' ugly," soliloquized Mrs. Brown, abruptly breaking into speech again, and seemingly addressing her remarks to the skillet she was then cleaning, and which she held up before her and gazed into intently, as a lady of fashion might do a hand glass at her toilet. "What o' that? Beauty's only skin deep, an' old age is likely to come to us all sooner or later. It's all the better if he is along in years," she added, with a sudden chuckle and a second furtive glance over the top of the skillet toward the girl, to see if she was listening. "Then he ain't so likely to live forever, an' a trim young widow, with property of her own an' money in bank, can mighty soon find a chance to marry ag'in, if she's a mind to." A cloud of anger swept over the listener's face, which the mother failed to see, as the skillet again intervened. "There ain't nothin' like havin' a home of your own, an' knowin' you've got a shelter for your old age--no, indeed, they ain't! The Squire's mighty well fixed; he's got a real good farm, an' turnpike stock, an' cash, an' a nice, comfortable house besides." "Comfortable!" exclaimed Sally, with a toss of her head, and breaking her resolve to keep silent. "It looks like a ha'nted barn stuck back amongst them cedar trees down in the hollow. No wonder his first wife went crazy an' hung herself up in the attic, poor thing! They say he treated her shameful mean."