"Yes--I took bad about a week ago," she was saying. "I'd been kind of miserable for several days. I got a fall that last rain we had, an' I didn't seem t' get over it." "I'd have come sooner if I'd known it," Elizabeth said, thinking of Luther's acceptance of a similar statement. "Jake didn't even tell us last night what was the matter." "I guess he didn't know. Would you 'a' come if you'd 'a' known, Lizzie?" Before Elizabeth could reply, she continued, "Ma used t' think it'd be kind o' nice for me t' live close t' you, but I knew you wouldn't never come t' see me. I used t' be kind o' jealous cause Luther liked you s' much. I said everything mean I could think of about you, t' him--but law! Luther ain't got no pride. He don't care. He defends you from everybody, whether you come t' see us 'r not." It was a curious little confession and one Sadie had not intended to make. Something big and sweet in Elizabeth had forced it from her. It embarrassed Elizabeth Hunter, and it held things which could not be discussed, and she turned the subject without answering. "When did you lose the baby?" "Oh, it only lived a couple of hours. You see it was too soon an'--an' it wasn't right. Th' doctor didn't expect it t' live as long as it did, but Luther would have it that it could, an' kept 'em a tryin' everything that could be thought of." Sadie's voice died away gradually and she lay looking out of the window retrospectively: the last two weeks had brought food for much thinking. "I didn't know, Lizzie, that a man could be as good as Luther. I'd always kind o' hated men, an' I thought I'd have t' fight my way through, like th' rest of th' women, an'--an'--he's that good an' thoughtful of me, an' of everybody else, that I'm clean ashamed of myself half th' time. He nearly had a fit when' he found out that I'd slipped with that wood. 'Twas ironing day, an' th' box got empty--an' then, when th' baby died, it just seemed as if he couldn't stand it." She looked up at Elizabeth earnestly: "I never heard any one but th' preacher pray out loud, Lizzie, an'--an'--somehow--well," she stumbled, "Luther prayed so sweet, when he see it was gone--I--I ain't thought of much else since. It--it seemed like th' baby'd done something good t' both of us." The spiteful, pettish face was for the moment ennobled by the reflected glory of another's goodness and love. Elizabeth caught a glimpse of a condition which makes heaven here upon earth. There was the harmony here in the "shanty" such as she coveted and strove in vain to establish in her own home. Of course there would be harmony where Luther Hansen was concerned: Luther _was_ harmony. Ignoring his part in the little drama, she was wise enough to touch the other side of the story in her reply. "These little ones bring blessings all their own, Sadie," she said, giving the hand on the patchwork quilt a little squeeze.