"A body kin always heer more about a thing fur off than right whar it happens," concluded Mrs. Bradley. They were now in the sitting-room, and Mrs. Dawson took off her bonnet and shawl. Mrs. Bradley put some pieces of pine under the smouldering logs in the fireplace and swept the hearth. That night when Westerfelt came home supper was on the table. He was surprised to see the visitor, but she did not notice him and he said nothing to her. The meal passed awkwardly. Luke made an effort to keep up the conversation with her by asking about his friends in her neighborhood, but her replies were in a low tone and short, and he finally gave up the attempt. Westerfelt rose from the table before any of the others and left the house. As he turned from the gate to go to the stable, he looked through the window and saw Mrs. Dawson move her chair to the fire. He paused and leaned against the fence. The firelight shone in the old woman's face; it was sad and careworn. Somehow she reminded him of his mother, as she had looked a short time before she died. He started on slowly, but came back again to the same spot. Luke wiped his mouth on the corner of the table-cloth, rose from the table, and went out at the back door. Westerfelt heard his merry whistle at the barn. Mrs. Bradley filled a large pan with dishes and took them into the kitchen. Mrs. Dawson bent over the fire. Something in the curve of her back and the trembling way she held her hands to the blaze made him think again of his mother. He hesitated a moment, then, lifting the ring from the post, he pushed the gate open and went round the house and into the kitchen. In a corner dimly lighted by a tallow-dip, and surrounded by pans, pots, and cooking utensils, Mrs. Bradley stood washing dishes. She turned when he entered. "Why," she exclaimed, "I--I thought you'd gone; what are you comin' in the back way fer?" "I've got something to say to--to her," he said, in a low tone. "I thought I'd ask you to stay out here for a minute--I won't be long." She said nothing for a moment, but looked at him strangely, as she slowly dried her hands on a dish-towel. Then she burst out impulsively: "John Westerfelt, ef Luke wusn't so particular 'bout my conduct with men, I'd kiss you smack dab in the mouth an' hug you; no wonder women make fools of the'rse'ves about you. Ef anybody ever dares agin to say anything agin yore character to me, I'll--" She choked up, turned to the corner, and dived into her dishpan, and he saw only her back. He went into the next room. Mrs. Dawson's dull glance was fixed on the coals under the logs. She started when she looked up and saw him behind her, and shrank from him in a pitiful blending of fright and questioning astonishment as he drew a chair near to hers and sat down. "What do you want, man?" she asked, looking towards the kitchen door, as if she hoped Mrs. Bradley would appear.