They went back to the front stoop together. Because Mahala untied and slipped it back with gentle hands, Rebecca spared her bonnet, and for the first time, Mahala had the chance really to study her features, her hair, the set of her head upon the column of her throat, and the figure concealed by the unbecoming dress. She could see that in her youth Rebecca must have been a beautiful girl. Under the grime of travel and the nerve strain of fatigue, she was still beautiful. Mahala made a pretence of eating after that. Surreptitiously, she pushed all of the food she had under Rebecca’s fingers. When they had finished, Mahala discovered that Rebecca was studying her intently. Then she looked over the neglected dooryard, at the old house, and back to Mahala. “Little angel lady,” she said, “you are kind to me in Ashwater. Why are you here?” A sudden tremor quivered across Mahala’s face. “Becky, dear,” she said, “this is my _home_ now. It’s the only place to live, that I have left. You know that my father went to Heaven and I lost my beautiful home, so now this is the only home I have. I’m coming here to live, to see if I can cure my mother’s broken heart.” Rebecca listened, her face full of intelligence. Suddenly she leaned again and in a low voice she whispered: “Who broke your mother’s heart?” Mahala, to ease her own fear and because she credited Rebecca with little more mentality than a child, answered truly: “Martin Moreland broke her heart, Becky; broke it recklessly and deliberately; broke it with malice and through long-pursued purpose.” At the mention of that name, Rebecca stiffened. A look of deep concentration came into her eyes. Again she seemed on the verge of going into a violent attack. Her brow began to cloud, to draw down in threatening darkness. She muttered ominously: “Martin Moreland, Martin Moreland, breaker of women’s hearts, and the hearts that he breaks never can be mended!” Afraid of her in violent moments, Mahala began patting her arm. In an effort to try to distract her attention, she begged her to listen to a bird of black and gold singing on a knotty old cherry tree, to watch big butterflies hovering over white phlox, to see the little growing things being choked by weeds. After they had finished their lunch and rested for a long time, they started back toward Ashwater. They made a notable pair, Rebecca with her round, childish face, the white flag waving with her every step; Mahala, thinned and whitened with suffering and hard work, her arms filled with white and purple phlox. Beside the road, whenever they passed Canadian anemones, cone flowers, or any beautiful wilding, Mahala paused to gather a few; and when they reached the cemetery, she divided her fragrant burden in halves, and going in, she knelt beside her father’s grave and scattered one portion over it, and burying her face above the spot where she imagined Mahlon Spellman’s heart was resting, she sobbed as if her own would break.