So this one-sided conversation went on until the little old woman was quite filled. Then Wilda made her snug, as if attending an infant, and fed Bounce, and sat down alone at the table. Scarcely were the clean pewter and crockery in place again, and the wheel set out where the table had been, and Wilda bundled ready to go out, when a knock sounded on the door. She opened it, and exclaimed as she always did,-- “Well, I declare! here’s Lanson. Come in, Lanson, and take a chair.” “Gimme your milk bucket,” responded Alanson. “I was just starting to milk, Lanson. Don’t you bother yourself with it to-night.” But he took her pail. And Wilda, smiling, laid off her wraps and made the hearth very clean, and plumped up the settee cushions. When Alanson handed the frothing pail into the door, without putting foot over the threshold, he glanced at the fireplace. “Want another log brought in to-night?” “Law, Lanson! that one ain’t half burnt.” “But it’ll settle down before another twenty-four hours. I ’low I’d better fetch a few sticks.” So he came in laden with sections of trees, and built them handily upon the structure of the fire. “Do you want ary bucket of water?” was his next inquiry. “No, I’m obleeged to you, Lanson,” replied Wilda. “I fetched a big gourdful from the spring as I come uphill. It saves steps.” Alanson now unbelted and took off his butternut-colored wamus, and Wilda hung it with his hat on a peg. He had a fine black blanket shawl for meeting, but he was not so reckless as to scratch it through hill underbrush every evening. Feeling himself now ready for society, Alanson walked over to the trundle-bed and greeted the invalid. “Good even’, Mis’ Coon; it’s right wintry outdoors.” She gave him an approving smile. He sat down in the settee and rocked himself, while Wilda pulled a long thread from her spindle, stepped back and gave the wheel a whirl. The trundle-bed, as usual, stood between her and her besieger. A hum, rising and rising like some sweet tune through the pines, filled the room. The great wheel blurred all its spokes, and found them again, and slackened to a slow revolution, as Wilda came back to the spindle. “How’s your aunt to-day?” she inquired. “Middling,” replied Alanson. Again the music of the spinning arose. Alanson warmed his feet and hands, and felt comforted after his tramp through the vast chill woods. When the silent companionship which he enjoyed with Wilda had quite filled its measure, he took from his pocket and unfolded a large newspaper. “I’ll light a candle,” said Wilda, with that eagerness for romance which the simplest lives manifest.