When Enos crawled into supper, he was a weary, conscience-smitten person. His anger had dissipated. What should come he knew not, but Martha’s feelings must be considered, first of all. He pictured her in the depths of despair—forlorn, distracted, possibly “packing.” An appetizing odor filled the house. Enos sniffed. “Beefsteak an’ onions an’ coffee,” he commented, gratefully. “Jest my likin’s. She wants to make up. Where did she get the meat?” Drawing his chair to the table, Mr. Matchett gazed at his spouse with a dismayed visage. Surely there was something wrong here. The display of luxuries, Martha’s unnaturally bright eyes, her compressed lips, the new black dress, her air of superiority. “What’s the matter?” said Martha. “Pitch in. I’ve got a nice supper an’ dressed up to show you how smart I can be under afflictions.” Enos took a mouthful. “I—I guess Craddock didn’t come for the rent,” he essayed. “Never knew him to skip us before.” “He come,” replied Martha, loftily. “An’ you—” the man’s fork shook against his plate. “Paid him, of course,” said Martha, airily. “You told me to attend to it.” Her husband half rose from his seat. “You ain’t right, my dear,” he said, soothingly—“what’s affected you?” “Set down!” commanded the woman, laughing. “We’ve found a friend, an’ our girl’s found a father. It’s all straight, Enos. In case you want a bit of spendin’ money, I’ve endorsed this over to you.” Mr. Matchett did sit down. His countenance underwent many changes as he fingered the check. “Wh—what’s it for?” he stuttered. “Lucianna’s keep,” said Martha. On the pleasant days, when the roads are fine, an automobile stops before the Matchett’s door. Presently it rolls slowly away. Martha sits very erect by the side of a golden-haired companion, and an Angora kitten nestles between them. There is a good deal of laughing and talking, and sometimes passers stare, but no one in the big car minds. The stout man in front with the chauffeur turns, smiling at the women. “Pretty distressing for us all, the removal of that lesion,” he says, “but she’s reading little books, now.” And when Enos asks a question with his eyes, upon Martha’s return from these trips, he gets the same old words: “She’s gettin’ better.” [Illustration] _Who Pays the Taxes?_ BY WILLIAM H. TILTON