“Roscoe,” she faltered, “I wonder if you'd be cross if I asked about what wan't any of my business. I'm old enough to be your grandma, pretty nigh, so I'm goin' to risk it. You used to be independent enough. You never used to care for the town or anybody in it. Lately you've changed. Changed in a good many ways. Is somethin' besides this Lane affair frettin' you? Is somebody frettin' you? Are you worried about--that one?” She had caught me unawares. I felt the blood tingle in my cheeks. I tried to laugh and made a failure of the attempt. “That one?” I repeated. “I--Why, I don't understand, Dorinda.” “Don't you? Well, if you don't then I'm just talkin' silly, that's all. If you do, I . . . . Humph! I might have known it!” She turned like a shot and jerked the door open. There was a rattle, a series of thumps, and a crash. Lute was sprawling upon the floor at our feet. I gazed at him in open-mouthed astonishment. Dorinda sniffed scornfully. “I might have known it,” she repeated. “Sittin' on the stairs there, listenin', wan't you?” Lute raised himself to his knees. “I think,” he panted, “I--I swan! I shouldn't wonder if I'd broke my leg!” “Um-hm! Well, if you'd broke your neck 'twouldn't have been no more'n you deserve. Shame on you! Sneakin' thing!” “Now, Dorindy, I--I wan't listenin'. I was just--” “Don't talk to me. Don't you open your mouth. And if you open it to anybody else about what you heard I'll--I declare I'll shut you up in the dark closet and keep you there, as if you was three year old. Sometimes I think your head ain't any older than that. Go right out of this house.” “But where'll I go?” “I don't care where you go. Only don't let me set eyes on you till dinner time. March!” Lute backed away as she advanced, waving both his hands and pleading and expostulating. “Dorindy, I tell you . . . WHAT makes you so unlikely? . . . I was just . . . All right then,” desperately, “I'll go! And if you never set eyes on me again 'twon't be my fault. You'll be sorry then. If you never see me no more you'll be sorry.” “I'll set eyes on you at dinner time. I ain't afraid of that. Git!” She followed him to the kitchen and then returned. “Ah hum!” she sighed, “it's pretty hard to remember that about darkest just afore dawn when you have a burden like that on your shoulders to lug through life. It's night most of the time then. Poor critter! he means well enough, too. And once he was a likely enough young feller, though shiftless, even then. But he had a long spell of fever three year after we was married and he's never been good for much since. I try to remember that, and to be patient with him, but it's a pretty hard job sometimes.” She sighed again. I had often wondered how a woman of her sense could have married Luther Rogers. Now she was telling me.