"Yes, we called in that herb-man over to Saltash, an' he says there ain't no chance for him. He's goin' to be like Adam, only wuss. An' I've been down to the Poor Farm, to tell 'em they've got to take him in." Her little hands worked; her eager eyes ate their way into the heart. Mary could see exactly how she had had her way with the selectmen. "I told 'em they'd got to," she repeated. "He ain't got no money, an' we ain't got nuthin', an' have two paraletics on my hands I can't. So they told me they'd give me word to-day; an' I'm goin' down to settle it. I'm in hopes they'll bring me back, an' take him along down." "Yes," answered Mary gravely. "Yes." "Well, now I've come to the beginnin' o' my story." Mattie took that last delicious sip of tea at the bottom of the cup. "He's layin' in bed, an' Adam's settin' by the stove; an' I wanted to know if you wouldn't run in, long towards noon, an' warm up suthin' for 'em." "Yes, indeed," said Mary Dunbar. "I'll be there." She rose, and Mattie, albeit she dearly loved to gossip, felt that she must rise, too, and be on her way. She tried to amplify on what she had already said, but Mary did not seem to be listening; so, treading carefully, lest the dust and dew beset her precious shoes, she took her way down the hill, like a busy little ant, born to scurry and gather. Mary looked hastily about the room, to see if its perfect order needed a farewell touch; and then she drank her cup of tea, and stepped out into the morning. The air was fresh and sweet. She wore no shawl, and the wind lifted the little brown rings on her forehead, and curled them closer. Mary held a hand upon them, and hurried on. She had no more thought of appearances than a woman in a desert land, or in the desert made by lack of praise; for she knew no one looked at her. To be clean and swift was all her life demanded. Adam sat by the stove, where the ashes were still warm. It was not a day for fires, but he loved his accustomed corner. He was a middle-aged man, old with the suffering which is not of years, and the pathos of his stricken state hung about him, from his unkempt beard to the dusty black clothing which had been the Tiverton minister's outworn suit. One would have said he belonged to the generation before his brother. "That you, Mary?" he asked, in his shaking voice. "Now, ain't that good? Come to set a spell?" "Where is he?" responded Mary, in a swift breathlessness quite new to her. "In there. We put up a bed in the clock-room."