"I don't either!" cried Jane, loudly, with a tremble on her lip and a hot tear starting in each eye. "I don't either; you know I don't! You know what I think! You're a dear, good, lovely woman; and I've been just as mean and hateful to you as I could! I don't see," she went on, in a great burst on contrition, "how you could talk to me; I don't see how you could let me stay one minute in your house. If you only knew all the mean, ugly, uncharitable things I have thought about you since that man let me in! How could you stand me? How could you keep from having me turned out?" "I am used to being misunderstood," said Mrs. Bates, quietly. "I took you at first for your father's sake, and I kept you for your own. It's a long time since I have met a girl like you; I didn't suppose there was one left in the whole town. You are one of _us_--the old settlers, the aborigines. Do you know what I'm going to do some time? I'm going to have a regular aboriginal pow-wow, and all the old-timers shall be invited. We'll have a reel, and forfeits, and all sorts of things; and off to one side of the wigwam there shall be two or three beautiful young squaws to pour firewater. Will you be one of them?" "Well," Jane hesitated, "I'm not so very young, you know; nor so very beautiful, either." "You are to me," responded Mrs. Bates, with a caloric brevity. "Nobody shall come," she went on, "who wasn't here before the War. Those who came before the Incorporation--that was in '37, wasn't it?--shall be doubly welcome. And if I can find any one who passed through the Massacre (as an infant, you understand), he shall have the head place. I mean to ask your father--and your mother," she added, with a firm but delicate emphasis. "I must call on her presently." She fixed her eyes on the fireplace. "I suppose I was silly--the way I acted when your father married," she went on, carefully. "We were only friends; there was really nothing between us; but I was piqued and--oh, well, you know how it is." "I!" cried Jane, routed by her alarm from her contrite and tearful mood. "I? Not the least bit, I assure you!" She blushed and gulped and ducked her head and half hid her face behind her hand. "Not the least in the world. Why, if I were to die to-morrow nobody would care but pa and ma and Roger and Truesdale and Alice; well--and Rosy; yes, perhaps Rosy would care for me--if I was dead. But nobody else; oh, dear, no!" She stared at Mrs. Bates with a hard, wide brightness. Mrs. Bates considerately shifted her gaze to the front of the bureau. She ran her eye down one row of knobs: "I wonder who he is?" And up the other: "I hope he is worthy of her." Doubly considerate, she turned her back, too. She began to rummage among the drawers of her old desk. "There!" she said, presently, "I knew I could put my hands on it."