II

MISS CLEGG'S ADOPTED

It was an evening in early October,—one of those first frosty nights when a bright wood fire is so agreeable to contemplate and so more than agreeable to sit in front of. Susan Clegg sat in front of hers, and doubtless thoroughly appreciated its cheerful warmth, but it cannot be said that she took any time to contemplate it, for her gaze was altogether riveted upon the stocking which she was knitting, and which appeared—for the time being—to absorb completely that persevering energy which was the dominant note of her character.

But still the beauty and brilliancy of the leaping flames were not altogether lost upon an unseeing world, for there was another present beside Susan, and that other was full to overflowing with the power of silent admiration. Her little black beady eyes stared at the dancing lights that leapt from each burning log in a species of rapt absorption, and it was only semi-occasionally that she turned them back upon the work which lay upon her lap. Mrs. Lathrop (for of course it was Mrs. Lathrop) was matching scraps for a "crazy" sofa-pillow, and there was something as touchingly characteristic in the calmness and deliberation of her matching as there was in the wild whirl which Susan's stocking received whenever that lady felt the moment had come to alter her needles. For Susan, when she knit, knit fast and furiously, whereas Mrs. Lathrop's main joy in relation to labor lay in the sensation that she was preparing to undertake it. The sofa-pillow had been conceived—some eighteen months before—as a crazy-quilt, but all of us who have entertained such friends unawares know that the size of their quilts depended wholly upon the wealth of our scrap-bags, and in the case of Mrs. Lathrop's friends their silk and satin resources had soon forced the reduction of her quilt into a sofa-pillow, and indeed the poor lady had during the first weeks felt a direful dread that the final result would be only a pin-cushion. She had begun the task with the idea of keeping it for "pick-up" work, and during the eighteen months since its beginning she had picked it up so rarely that after a year and a half of "matching" it was not yet matched. It goes without saying that Miss Clegg had very little sympathy with her friend's fancy-work and despised the slowness of its progress, but her contempt had no effect whatever upon Mrs. Lathrop, whose friendship was of that quality the basis of which knows not the sensation of being shaken.

So the older woman sat before the fire, and sometimes stared long upon its glow, and sometimes thoughtfully drew two bits of silk from her bag and disposed them side by side to the end that she might calmly and dispassionately judge the advisability of joining them together forever, while the younger woman knit madly away without an instant's loss or a second's pause.

Mrs. Lathrop was thinking very seriously of pinning a green stripe to a yellow polka-dotted weave which had once formed part of Mrs. Macy's mother's christening-robe, when Susan opened her lips and addressed her. The attack was so sudden that the proprietor of the crazy-work started violently and dropped the piece of the christening-robe; but the slight accident had no effect upon her friend.

"It does beat me, Mrs. Lathrop," she began, "how you can potter over that quilt year in and year out. I sh'd think you'd be so dead-sick o' the sight o' them pieces 't you'd be glad to dump the whole in the fire. I don't say but the idea is a nice one, an' you know 's well as I do that when they're too frayed to wear every one's nothin' but glad to save you their bonnet-strings, but all the same my own feelin' in the matter is 't a thing that ain't come to sewin' in two years ain't never goin' to come to bindin' in my lifetime, an' naturally that 'd leave you to finish your quilt some years after you was dead. I don't see how you're goin' to get a quilt out o' them pieces anyhow. This town ain't give to choppin' up their silk in a way that's likely to leave you many scraps, 'n' I know 's far 's I'm concerned 't if I had any good silk I sh'd certainly save it to mend with, 'n' I'm a rich woman too."

"I ain't tryin' for a quilt," said Mrs. Lathrop mildly, "I'm only—"

"Mrs. Lathrop"—Susan's tone was emphatically outraged—"Mrs. Lathrop, do you mean to say that after all this givin' you ain't goin' to do your share? 'N' me lettin' you have the inside of the top of father's hat, 'n' Mrs. Fisher savin' you all her corners jus' on your simple askin'. You said a quilt, 'n' we give for a quilt, 'n' if you've changed your mind I must say I want the inside o' the hat again to polish my parlor lookin'-glass with."

"I ain't got enough for the quilt," said Mrs. Lathrop; "it's a sofa-pillow I'm—"

"Oh," said Susan, much relieved, "well—I'm glad to hear it. I couldn't hardly believe it of you, Mrs. Lathrop, 'n' yet if you can't believe what a person says of themselves who can you believe when it comes to talkin' about anybody? I'm glad to know the truth, though, Mrs. Lathrop, for I was more upset 'n I showed at the notion o' losin' faith in you. You know what I think of you, 'n' I called you over to-night to ask your advice about suthin' as has been roamin' my head for a long time, 'n' you can mebbe understand 's it didn't over-please me to have your first remark one as I couldn't in reason approve of. A woman as 'll begin a quilt 'n' trade hen's eggs 'n' all but go aroun' town on her bended knees to get the old ties of other women's lawful husbands, jus' to give up in the end has got no advisin' stuff for me inside o' her. I wouldn't like to hurt your feelin's, Mrs. Lathrop, 'n' as long as you say it's a sofa-pillow o' course there's no harm done, but still it was a shock 'n' I can't deny it."

Mrs. Lathrop appeared most regretful, withdrew her gaze from the fire and the yellow polka-dots and directed its entire volume at Susan.

The latter altered her needles with a fierce fling, and then continued:

"However, now 's all is made clear I will go on 'n' tell you what's on my mind. I'd be a fool not to tell you, havin' got you over here just for the purpose o' bein' told, 'n' yet I've sat here a good hour—'n' you know I ain't over-give to sittin', Mrs. Lathrop—tryin' to decide whether after all I would tell you or not. You see this subjeck isn't nowise new to me, but it'll be new to you, 'n' bein' new to you I can't see how anythin' 's goin' to be got out o' askin' you f'r advice. It ain't likely 't any one first go-off c'n think of things 't I ain't thought of already, 'n' you know yourself, Mrs. Lathrop, how little you ever have to say to me compared to what I say to you. Besides, 's far's my observation 's extended no one don't ask f'r advice 'nless they've pretty well made up their mind not to take it, if so be 's it suits 'em better untook, 'n' when I make up my mind I'm goin' to do a thing anyhow so there ain't much use in me askin' you 'r anybody else what they think about it. A woman 's rich 's I be don't need to take no one else's say-so nohow—not 'nless she feels so inclined, 'n' the older I get the less I incline."

Mrs. Lathrop sighed slightly, but did not alter her position by a hair. Susan whirled her stocking, took a fresh breath, and went on:

"It's a subjeck 't I've been lookin' straight in the face, 's well 's upside down 'n' hind end to, f'r a good long time. I 'xpeck 't it'll mebbe come in the nature of a surprise to the c'mmunity in general, 'n' yet, to tell you the truth, Mrs. Lathrop, I was thinkin' o' this very thing away back las' spring when Mrs. Shores eloped. I was even thinkin' of it that very minute, f'r I was one o' them 's was in the square when Johnny come runnin' from the station with the telegram. Everybody 's see Johnny's face thought 's two trains had smashed on his a'count somewhere, 'n' I recolleck Mr. Kimball's sayin' 's he couldn't 'a' looked more miserable 'f he'd been the man 's had run away with her. It was too bad you wasn't there, Mrs. Lathrop,—Mrs. Macy always says 't she'll regret to her dyin' day 's she thought o' comin' to town that mornin' to get the right time f'r her clock 'n' then decided to wait 'n' set it by the whistle. Gran'ma Mullins was there—she was almost in front o' Mr. Shores' store. I've heard her say a hunderd times 't, give her three seconds more, 'n' she'd 'a' been right in front; but she was takin' her time, 'n' so she jus' missed seein' Johnny hand in the telegram. I was standin' back to the band-stand, tellin' Mrs. Allen my receipt for cabbage pickle, so I never felt to blame myself none f'r not gettin' nearer quicker. The first thing I recolleck was I says, ''N' then boil the vinegar again,' 'n' Mrs. Allen give a scream 'n' run. Then I turned 'n' see every one runnin', 'n' Mr. Shores in the lead. They do say 's he was so crazy 't first 't he seemed to think he c'd catch the Knoxville Express by tearin' across the square. But he give out afore he reached Judge Fitch's, 'n' Johnny 'n' Hiram Mullins had to carry him home. Well, it was a bad business at first, 'n' when she kidnapped the baby 't was worse. I was down in the square the day 't Johnny come with that telegram too. I remember Mrs. Macy 'n' me was the only ones there 'cause it was Monday. I wasn't goin' to wash 'cause I only had a nightgown 'n' two aprons, 'n' the currants was ripe 'n' I'd gone down to get my sugar, 'n' Johnny come kitin' up fr'm the station, 'n' Mrs. Macy 'n' me didn't put on no airs but just kited right after him. Mrs. Macy always says she learned to see the sense in Bible miracles that day, f'r she had n't run in years then, 'n' she's walked with a stick ever since, but she run that day, 'n' Johnny bein' tired 'n' Mrs. Macy 'n' me fresh—she was a little fresher 'n me f'r I 'd been talkin'—we all three come in on Mr. Shores together. Seems like I c'n see him now. He sort of shivered all over 'n' says, 'Ah—a telegram!' 'n' Johnny says, 'Jus' come,' 'n' then we all waited. Well, Mrs. Lathrop, I guess I've told you before how he jus' sort o' went right up in the air!—it said, 'We have took the child,' 'n' he bounced all over like a rat that ain't good caught 'n' then he out 'n' away 'n' we right after him. He kept hollerin', 'It's a lie—it's a lie,' but when he got home he found out 't Mrs. Shores had kep' her word 's usual. Mrs. Macy put cold water to his head 'n' I mixed mustard plasters 'n' put 'em on anywhere 't he was still enough, but all the same they had to lace him to the ironin' board that night. I hear lots o' folks says 's he's never really knowed which end up he was walkin' since, but I guess there's more reasons f'r that 'n her takin' the baby. My own view o' the matter is 't he misses his clerk full 's much 's he misses his family, f'r he's got to tend both sides of the store at once 'n' he don't begin to be as spry 's that young feller was. He can't hop back 'n' forth over the counter like he used to; he's got to go way back through the calicoes every time or else climb up in the window-seat over that squirrel 't he keeps there in a cage advertisin' fur-lined mitts 'n' winter nuts. Mr. Kimball 's forever makin' one o' them famous jokes of his over him, 'n' sayin' 't he never looks across the square without he sees Shores tryin' to rise above his troubles 'n' his squirrel together, but I don't see nothin' funny in any of it myself. I think it's no more 'n' what he might of 'xpected. He got the squirrel himself 'n' his wife too, 'n' she never did suit him. He was all put out at first over her takin' it so to heart 't he wore a wig, 'n' then he was clean disgusted over the baby 'cause he wanted a boy 't he could name after himself. They said he all but cried, 'n' she cried dreadful, f'r she didn't know nothin' about babies 'n' thought it was goin' to be bald always, jus' like him. But what did he marry for if he did n't want trouble?—That was what I said to the minister's wife. She come to call right in the first of it, 'n' I must say 't if she hadn't come mebbe a good many things might o' been different, for my mind was about made up then, an' I was thinkin' very serious o' mebbe sayin' suthin' to you that very night. But she put me at outs with the whole thing—not as I won't admit 't there ain't a difference between one 'n' nine, f'r any one c'n work that out on their fingers fast enough."

Mrs. Lathrop assented to this statement by moving her head in a slow acquiescent rhythm as she rocked.

"But her talk was certainly awful discouragin'. She was tryin' to speak o' Mr. Shores, but she kep' trailin' back to herself, 'n' when she said 't she'd never had time to crimp her hair since her weddin' day she jus' broke right down. I cheered her up all I could. I told her she couldn't with a clear conscience blame any one but herself 'n' she'd ought to say her prayers of gratitude 't she hadn't got eight herself, same 's him. She sort o' choked 'n' said she couldn't have eight 'cause she had n't been married but one year. 'Well,' I says, 'I don't see no great sense in that; he had eight the day he was married 's far 's that goes, did n't he?' She jus' rocked back 'n' forth 'n' said 't no one in the whole wide world had any notion how many eight children was till they turned aroun' from the altar 'n' see 'em strung out in the pew 's is saved for the family. I told her 't as far 's my observation 'd 'xtended quite a number o' things looked different comin' down from the altar, 'n' it was in my heart to tell her 't if I'd let any man get so much the better o' me 's to marry me, my self-respeck would certainly shut my mouth up tight afterwards. As long 's a woman 's single she's top-dog in the fight 'n' can say what she pleases, but after she's married a man she'll keep still 'f she's wise, 'n' the wiser she is the stiller she'll keep, for there's no sense in ever lettin'folks know how badly you've been fooled.—But I didn't say all that to the minister's wife, for she didn't look like she had strength to listen, 'n' so I made her some tea instead.—'N' then it come out 't after all what she come for was to borrow my clo'es-wringer! Well, Mrs. Lathrop, I certainly didn't have no blame f'r myself at feelin' some tempered under them circumstances,—me so sympathetic—'n' the tea—'n' all."

Mrs. Lathrop shook her head in calm and appreciative understanding.

"Did you lend—" she asked.

"—'N' there are folks just like that in this world too," Susan continued, "'n' it beats me what the Lord makes 'em so for, for they'll talk 'n' talk 'n' wander all over every subjeck in Creation to come 'n' never even begin to get around to the point till you're clean gi'n out with listenin'. 'F the minister's wife hadn't come that day 'n' hadn't talked as she did, I might 'a' been left less wore out and, as a consequence, have told you that night what I ain't never told you yet, for it was strong in my mind then 'n' it's strong in my mind now, 'n' bein' one o' them 's wastes no words, I'll state to you at once, Mrs. Lathrop, 't before Mrs. Shores run away—'n' after she run away too, f'r that matter—I was thinkin' very seriously o' adoptin' a baby."

"A—" said Mrs. Lathrop, opening her eyes somewhat.

"A baby," repeated Susan. "I feel you ought to be the first one to know it because, 's much 's I'm out, you'll naturally have the care of it the most of the time."

Mrs. Lathrop clawed feebly among her pieces and seemed somewhat bewildered as she clawed.

"Mrs. Shores' ba—" she queried.

Susan screamed.

"Mrs. Lathrop!"—she stopped knitting so that she might concentrate her entire strength into the extreme astonishment which she desired to render manifest in those two words—"Mrs. Lathrop!—Me!—adopt Mrs. Shores' baby! Adopt the baby of a woman as 'd gone off 'n' left it!"

Mrs. Lathrop looked deeply apologetic.

"I didn't know—" she ventured.

"Well, you'd ought to of," said Susan, "'n' if you didn't I'd never own to it. Such a idea never entered my head, 'n' I can't conceive when nor how it entered yours. Only I'm free to confess to one thing, Mrs. Lathrop, 'n' that is 't 'f I was give to havin' ideas 's senseless 's yours often are, I'd certainly keep my mouth shut 'n' let people 's knows more do the talkin'."

Mrs. Lathrop swallowed the rebuke and remained passively overcome by the after-clap of her astonishment.

Susan began to knit again.

"I wasn't thinkin' o' Mrs. Shores' baby 'n' I wasn't thinkin' o' no baby in particular. I never said I was thinkin' of any baby—I said I was thinkin' of a baby. I sh'd think you could 'a' seen the difference, but even if you can't see it there is a difference just the same. My sakes alive! it's a serious enough matter decidin' to adopt some one for good 'n' all without hurryin' the doin' of it any. If you was 's rich 's I be, Mrs. Lathrop, you'd understand that better. 'N' if you was 's rich 's I be, you might not be in no more of a hurry 'n I am. I ain't in a hurry a tall. I ain't in a hurry 'n' I don't mean to be in a hurry. I'm only jus' a-gettin' on towards makin' up my mind."

Mrs. Lathrop slowly and meditatively drew a piece of sky-blue farmer's satin from her bag and looked at it absent-mindedly. Susan twirled her stocking and went on.

"'S long 's I've begun I may 's well make a clean breast of the whole now. O' course you don't know nothin', Mrs. Lathrop, but, to put the whole thing in a shell, this adoptin' of a child 's a good deal to consider. When a woman 's married, it's the Lord's will 'n' out o' the Bible 'n' to be took without no murmurin' 's to your own feelin's in the matter. Every one 's sorry for married people, no matter how their children turn out, because, good or bad, like enough they done their best, 'n' if they didn't it was always the other one's fault; but there ain't no one goin' to lay themselves out to try 'n' smooth my child's thorns into a bed o' roses for me. Every one 's jus' goin' to up 'n' blame me right 'n' left, 'n' if it has a pug-nose or turns out bad I can't shoulder none of it onto the Lord, I'll jus' have the whole c'mmunity sayin' I've got myself 'n' no one else to thank. Now, when you know f'r sure 't you can't blame nobody else but jus' yourself, you go pretty slow, 'n' for that very reason I'm thinkin' this subjeck well over afore I decide. There's a good many questions to consider,—my mind 's got to be made up whether boy or girl 'n' age 'n' so forth afore I shall open my lips to a livin' soul."

Mrs. Lathrop appeared to be slowly recovering from the effects of her surprise.

"Would you take a small—" she asked, perhaps with some mental reference to the remark that dowered her with the occasional charge of the future adopted Clegg.

"Well, I d'n' know. That's a very hard thing that comes up first of all every time 't I begin thinkin'. When most folks set out to adopt a baby, the main idea seems to be to try 'n' get 'em so young 't they can't never say for sure's you ain't their mother."

Mrs. Lathrop nodded approval, mute but emphatic, of the wisdom of her friend's views.

"But I ain't got none o' that foolish sort o' notions in me. I wouldn't be its mother, 'n' 'f there was n't no one else to tell it so Mr. Kimball 'd rejoice to the first time I sent it down town alone. It's nigh to impossible to keep nothin' in the town with Mr. Kimball. A man f'rever talkin' like that 's bound to tell everythin' sooner or later, 'n' I never was one to set any great store o' faith on a talker. When I don't want the whole town to know 't I'm layin' in rat-poison I buy of Shores, 'n' when I get a new dress I buy o' Kimball. I don't want my rats talked about 'n' I don't mind my dress. For which same reason I sh'll make no try 't foolin' my baby. I'll be content if it cooes. I remember Mrs. Macy's sayin' once 't a baby was sweetest when it cooes, 'n' I don't want to miss nothin', 'n' we ain't never kep' doves for me to be dead-sick o' the noise, so I want the cooin' age. I think it'll be pleasant comin' home days to hear the baby cooin', 'n' 'f it cooes too loud when I'm away you c'n always come over 'n' see if it's rolled anywhere. I c'n see that, generally speaking, it's a wise thing that folks jus' have to take 'em as they come, because when it's all for you to choose you want so much 't like 's not I can't be suited after all. It's goin' to be pretty hard decidin', 'n' when I've done decidin' it's goin' to be pretty hard findin' a baby that's all 't I've decided; 'n' then, if I find it,—then comes the raisin' of it, 'n' I espect that 'll be suthin' jus' awful."

"How was you goin' to find—" Mrs. Lathrop asked.

"Well, I've got to go to town to look at winter coats, 'n' I thought 't when I'd found what I wanted I'd jus' glance through two or three orphan asylums afore comin' home."

Mrs. Lathrop pinned the purple to the yellow and shut one eye so as to judge of the combination from the single standpoint of the other. She seemed to be gradually regaining her normal state of abnormal calmness.

"I thought 't your coat was pretty good," she said mildly, as Susan altered her needles. The stocking started violently.

"Pretty good! It's most new. My heavens alive, Mrs. Lathrop, don't you know 's well 's I do 't I ain't had my new coat but four years 'n' then only to church!"

"You said 't you was goin' to get—" Mrs. Lathrop remarked, unpinning the purple as she spoke and replacing it in the bag.

"Mrs. Lathrop! 'f you don't beat anythin' 't I ever saw for puttin' words 't I never even dreamed of into other folks's mouths! 'S if I should ever think o' buyin' a new coat 'n' the price-tag not even dirty on the inside o' mine yet! I never said 't I was goin' to buy a coat,—I never thought o' goin' to buy a coat,—what I did say was 't I was goin' to look at coats, an' the reason 't I'm goin' to look at coats is because I'm goin' to cut over the sleeves o' mine. I thought all last winter 't it was pretty queer for a woman 's rich 's I be to wear old-fashioned sleeves—more particularly so where I c'n easy cut a new sleeve crossways out o' the puffs o' the old ones. 'N' that's why I want to look at coats, Mrs. Lathrop, for I ain't in the habit o' settin' my shears in where I can't see my way out."

Mrs. Lathrop fingered a piece of rusty black silk and made no comment.

"When I get done lookin' at coats, lookin' 't orphans 'll be jus' a nice change. If I see any 't I think might suit I'll take their numbers 'n' come home 'n' see about decidin', 'n' if I don't see any 't I like I'll come home jus' the same."

The clock struck nine. Mrs. Lathrop rose and gathered up her bag of pieces.

"I mus' be goin' home," she said.

"I was thinkin' that very same thing," said Susan, rising also. "It's our thinkin' so much the same't keeps us friends, I guess."

Mrs. Lathrop sought her shawl and departed.

It was about a week later that the trip to town took place. The day was chosen to suit the opening of a most unprecedented Fire-Sale. Miss Clegg thought that the latest styles in coat-sleeves were likely to bloom broadcast on so auspicious an occasion, and Mrs. Lathrop herself was sufficiently infected by the advertising in the papers to dare to intrust her friend with the whole of a two-dollar bill to be judiciously invested if bargains should really run as wildly rife as was predicted.

Susan departed very early and did not get back till very late—so late in fact that her next-door neighbor had the time to become more than a little anxious as to the possibilities of some mischance having befallen her two-dollar bill.

But towards eight o'clock signs of life next door appeared to the anxious watcher in the Lathrop kitchen window, and one minute later she was on her way across. She found the front door, which was commonly open, to be uncommonly shut, and was forced to rap loudly and wait lengthily ere the survivor of the Fire-Sale came to let her in.

Then when the door did open the figure which appeared in the opening was such as to startle even the phlegmatically disposed chewer of clover.

"My heavens alive, Susan, whatever is the matter with—"

Susan backed faintly into the hall so as to allow the other to enter.

"I'm worn to a frazzle—that's all!" she said weakly and wearily.

They turned into the parlor, where the lamp was burning, and Mrs. Lathrop gave a little frightened scream:

"Susan! why, you look half—"

Miss Clegg collapsed at once heavily upon the haircloth-covered sofa.

"I guess you'd better make me some tea," she suggested, and shut her eyes.

Mrs. Lathrop had no doubt whatever on the subject. Hurrying out to the kitchen, she brewed a cup of the strongest possible tea in the fewest possible moments, and brought it in to the traveller. The latter drank with satisfaction, then leaned back with a sigh.

"It was a auction!" she said in tones that gasped.

Mrs. Lathrop could restrain her anxiety no longer.

"Did you get anything with my—" she asked.

"Yes; it's out in the hall with my shawl."

"What did—"

"It's a parrot," said Susan.

"A parrot!" cried Mrs. Lathrop, betraying as much feeling as it was in her to feel.

"Without any head," Susan added wearily.

"Without any head!"

Then Miss Clegg straightened up in her seat and opened her eyes.

"There ain't no need o' bein' so surprised," she said in that peculiar tone with which one who has spent another's money always defends his purchase,—"it's a stuffed parrot without any head."

"A stuffed parrot without any head!" Mrs. Lathrop repeated limply, and her tone was numb and indescribable.

"How much did it—" she asked after a minute.

"I bid it in for one dollar 'n' ninety-seven cents,—I was awful scared f'r fear it would go over your two dollars, an' it wasn't nothin' that I'd ever want, so I couldn't 'a' taken it off your hands if it had gone over your money."

"I wonder what I can do with it," her neighbor said feebly.

"You must hang it in the window so high 't the head don't show."

"I thought you said it didn't have no head."

Miss Clegg quitted the sofa abruptly and came over to her own chair; the tea appeared to be beginning to take effect.

"It hasn't got no head! If it had a head, where would be the sense in hangin' it high a tall? It's your good luck, Mrs. Lathrop, 't it hasn't got no head, for the man said 't if it had a head it would 'a' brought four or five dollars easy."

Mrs. Lathrop got up and went out into the hall to seek her parrot. When she brought it in and examined it by the light of the lamp, her expression became more than dubious.

"What did you get for your—" she asked at last.

"I didn't get nothin'. I didn't see nothin' 't I wanted, 'n' I learned long ago 't an auction 's generally a good place f'r buyin' things 't you don't want after you've bought 'em. Now take that parrot o' yours!—I wouldn't have him 'f you was to offer him to me for a gift; not to speak o' his not havin' no head, he looks to me like he had moths in him,—you look at him by daylight to-morrow 'n' see if it don't strike you so too."

Mrs. Lathrop was silent for a long time. Finally she said:

"Did you go to the Orphan Asylum?"

"Well—no—I did n't. I would 'a' gone only I got on the wrong car 'n' ended in a cemetery instead. I had a nice time there, though, walkin' roun' 'n' readin' ages, an' jus' as I was goin' out I met a monument man 't had a place right outside the gate, 'n' he took me to look at his things, 'n' then I remembered father—two years dead 'n' not a stone on him yet!"

Mrs. Lathrop laid the parrot aside with a heavy sigh and concentrated all her attention upon her friend's recital.

"The man was about 's pleasant a man 's ever I met. When I told him about father, he told me he took a interest in every word, whether I bought a monument of him or not. He said he'd show me all he had 'n' welcome 'n' it was no trouble but a joy. Then he took me all through his shop 'n' the shed behind, 'n' really I never had a nicer time. I see a lamb lyin' down first, 'n' I thought 't that would be nice f'r a little, but the further back we went the finer they got. The man wanted me to take a eagle grippin' a pen 'n' writin' father's name on a book 't he's sittin' on to hold open while he writes. I told him 'f I bought any such monument I cert'nly would want the name somewhere else than up where no one but the eagle could read it. He said 't I could have the name below 'n' let the eagle be writin' 'Repose in Peace,' but I told him 't father died of paralysis after bein' in bed for twenty years 'n' that his idea o' Heaven wasn't reposin' in peace,—he always looked forward to walkin' about 'n.' bein' pretty lively there. Then the man said 't maybe suthin' simple would be more to my taste, 'n' he took me to where there was a pillow with a wreath of roses on it, but—my gracious, I'd never be so mean 's to put a pillow anywhere near father after all them years in bed, 'n' as to the roses they'd be jus' 's bad or worse, for you know yourself how they give him hay-fever so 's we had to dig up all the bushes years ago.

"But I'll tell you, Mrs. Lathrop, what I did see that nobody on the wide earth c'd help wishin' was on top o' their grave the minute they laid eyes on it. It's a lion—a weepin' lion—kind o' tryin' to wipe his eyes with one paw. I tell you I never saw nothin' one quarter so handsome over no one yet, 'n' if I wasn't thinkin' o' adoptin' a child I'd never rest until I'd set that lion on top of father. But o' course, as it is, I can't even think how it might look there; the livin' has rights over the dead, 'n' my child can't go without the necessaries of life while my father gets a weepin' lion 't when you come right square down to it he ain't got no more use for 'n' a cat has for two tails. No, I'm a rich woman, but all incomes has their outside fence. 'F a man 's got a million a year, he can't spend two million, 'n' I can't start in child raisin' 'n' tombstone father all in the same year. Father 'll have to wait, 'n' he got so used to it while he was alive 't he ought not to mind it much now he's dead. But I give the man my address, 'n' he give me one o' his cards, 'n' when I go to the Orphan Asylum I may go back 'n' see him, an' maybe if I tell him about the baby he'll reduce the lion some. The lion is awful high—strikes me. He's three hunderd dollars, but the man says that 's because his tail 's out o' the same block. I asked him if he couldn't take the tail off, but he said 't that would hurt his reputation. He said 'f I'd go up the ladder to his second floor 'n' look down on the lion I'd never talk about sawin' off his tail, 'n' he said 't anyhow cuttin' it off would only make it cost more because it was cut on in the first place. I saw the sense o' that, 'n' I remembered, too, 't even 'f folks in the cemetery never can see the tail, father 'll have to look at it from higher up 'n the ladder to the monument man's shed, 'n' I don't want him to think 't I economized on the tail of his tombstone. I tell you what, Mrs. Lathrop, I cert'nly do want that lion, but I can't have it, so I've decided not to think of it again. The man c'd see I wanted it, 'n' I c'd see 't he really wanted me to have it. He felt so kind o' sorry for me 't he said he'd do me a weepin' fox for one hunderd 'n' fifty, if I wanted it, but I didn't want no fox. Father didn't have nothin' like a fox—his nose was broad 'n' kind o' flat. He hadn't nothin' like a lion, neither, but I'd like to have the only lion in the cemetery ours."

Mrs. Lathrop nodded her head sympathetically.

Miss Clegg sighed and looked pensive for a moment, but it was soon over.

"'N' I've decided about my child too," she continued briskly,—"I've decided to have a boy. I decided goin' in on the train to-day. I'd been sorter thinkin' that I'd leave it to chance, but ordinary folks can't do no more 'n' that, 'n' where 's the good o' me bein' so open 'n' above-board 'f I dunno whether it'll be a boy or girl, after all? I might 's well 's married the minister, 'n' Lord knows Mrs. Shores's troubles ought to be warnin' enough to no woman in this community not to marry no man, f'r one while, at any rate. If Mrs. Shores hadn't married Mr. Shores, she c'd easy 'a' married his clerk when she fell in love with him. No woman that 's goin' to fall in love ever ought to begin by marryin' another man first. It mixes everythin' all up. But Mrs. Shores was a fool or she never would 'a' married him to begin with. I told him that the first time 't I see him after she was gone. I thought 't if it was any comfort to him to know that there was one person in the c'mmunity 't looked on his wife as a fool he was welcome to the knowin'. So I told him, 'n' I used those very self-same words too,—'n' I cert'nly did ache to tell him that he was jus' 's big a fool himself to 'a' ever married her, but I didn't think 't that would be jus' polite.

"But all that was right in the first of it—before she took the baby. I'm free to confess 't I think he c'd 'a' stood anythin' 'f she hadn't took the baby. It was the baby as used him all up. 'N' that seems kind o' queer too, for seems to me, 'f my wife run away, I'd be glad to make a clean sweep o' her 'n' hers 'n' begin all afresh; I'd never have no injunctions 'n' detectives drawin' wages for chasin' no wife 'n' baby 't left o' their own accord. But that's jus' like a man, 'n' I must say 't I'm dead glad 't no man ain't goin' to have no right to interfere with my child. I c'n take it 'n' go anywhere 't I please 'n' never be afraid o' any subpenny comin' down on me. 'S far 's I'm concerned, I only wish 't she'd send back 'n' abduct him too, 'n' then the community 'd have some peace on the Shores subjeck. There ain't nothin' left to say, 'n' every one keeps sayin' it over 'n' over from dawn to dark. I must say, Mrs. Lathrop, 't when I c'nsider how much folks still find to say o' Mrs. Shores 'n' it all, I'm more 'n proud that I ain't never been one to say nothin' a tall."

Mrs. Lathrop did not speak for some time. Then she took up her parrot again and looked thoughtfully at its feet.

"What made you decide on a b—" she asked at last.

"I didn't decide. I c'u'd n't decide, 'n' so I shook a nickel for heads 'n' tails."

"'N' it came a boy."

"No, it came a girl, 'n' the minute 't I see 't it was a girl I knew 't I'd wanted a boy all along, so, 's the good o' me bein' free to act 's I please is 't I do act 's I please, I decided then 'n' there on a boy."

Mrs. Lathrop turned the parrot over.

'F you was so set on a boy, why did you—"

"What do folks ever toss up for? To decide. Tossin' up always shows you jus' how much you didn't want what you get. Only, as a general thing, there's some one else who does want it, an' they grab it 'n' you go empty-handed. The good o' me tossin' is I c'n always take either side o' the nickel after I've tossed. I ain't nobody's fool—'n' I never was—'n' I never will be. But I guess I've got to ask you to go home now, Mrs. Lathrop. I've had a hard day 'n' I'm 'most too tired to pay attention to what you say any longer. I want to get to bed 'n' to sleep, 'n' then to-morrow maybe I'll feel like talkin' myself."

The third morning after Miss Clegg's trip to town she astonished her neighbor by tapping on the latter's kitchen window at the early hour of seven in the morning. Mrs. Lathrop was getting breakfast, and her surprise caused her to jump unduly.

"Well, Susan!" she said, opening the door, "what ever is the—"

"Matter! Nothin' ain't the matter, only I've had a letter from the monument man. It come last night, 'n' the minister took it out o' the post-office 'n' sent it over by little 'Liza Em'ly when she come with the milk this mornin'. I dunno whether to thank the minister for bein' so kind or whether to ask him to mind his own business. It's got 'Important' on the corner, 'n' sometimes I don't go to the post-office for two days at a time, but jus' the same it strikes me 't I ain't altogether in favor o' the minister's carryin' my mail home with him any time he feels so inclined. If I'd 'a' married him, I never 'd 'a' allowed him to interfere with my affairs, 'n' 's long 's I didn't marry him I don't see no good reason for his doin' so now."

Susan paused and looked at the letter which she held in her hand. Mrs. Lathrop slid one of the kitchen chairs up behind her, and she sat down, still looking at the letter.

"It's from the monument man," she said again, "'n' I don't know what ever I shall do about it, I'm sure."

Mrs. Lathrop was all attention.

"It's about the lion. He says 't he's been 'n' took some black chalk 'n' marked around under him 'Sacred to the memory of Blank Clegg,' 'n' he says 't it looks so noble 't he's had an offer for the monument 'n' he wants me to come in 'n' see it afore he sells it to—to some one else."

There was a short silence, broken at last by Mrs. Lathrop.

"Your father's name wa'n't 'Blank,'" she said; "it was 'Henry.'"

Susan knit her brows.

"I know, 'n' that's one thing 't 's been troublin' me. It's written out in good plain letters—'Blank Clegg'—'n' I've been tryin' 'n' tryin' to think what I could 'a' said to 'a' made him suppose 't it could 'a' been 'Blank.' That 'd be the last name in the wide world for anybody to name anybody else, I sh'd suppose, 'n' I can't see for the life o' me why that monument man sh'd 'a' hit on it for father. I'm cert'nly mighty glad that he's only marked it on in black chalk 'n' not chopped it out o' the bottom o' the lion. O' course 'f he 'd chopped it out I'd 'a' had to 'a' taken it an' it'd jus' made me the laughin'-stock o' the whole community. I know lots o' folks 't are plenty mean enough 's to say 't that lion was weepin' because I didn't know my own father's name."

Mrs. Lathrop looked sober.

"So I guess I've got to go to town by to-day's ten o'clock. I ain't no intention o' takin' the lion, but I shall like to stand off a little ways 'n' look at the part o' the name 't 's spelt right. Later maybe I'll visit a few asylums—I ain't sure. But anyway I thought I'd jus' run over 'n' let you know 't I was goin', 'n' ask you if there's anythin' 't I can get f'r you while I'm in town."

"No, there isn't," said Mrs. Lathrop with great firmness.

Susan rose to go.

"I'm thinkin' o' buyin' the Shores baby outfit," she said. "I guess Mr. Shores 'll be glad to sell it cheap. They say 't he can't bear to be reminded o' the baby, 'n' I don't well see what else the crib 'n' the baby carriage can remind him of."

"I wonder if the sewing-machine reminds him o' Mrs. Shores," said Mrs. Lathrop. "I'd be glad to buy it if it did 'n' 'f he was wantin' to sell it cheap."

"I dunno why it sh'd remind him o' Mrs. Shores," said Susan; "she never sewed on it none. She never did nothin' 's far 's I c'd make out except to sit on the front porch 'n' talk to his clerk. My, but I sh'd think he 'd hate the sight o' that front porch. If it c'd be got off, I 'd like to buy that of him too. My front porch 's awful old 'n' shaky 'n' I 'll need a good porch to wheel baby on. He c'd take my porch in part payment. It's bein' so old 'n' shaky wouldn't matter to him I don't suppose, for I 'll bet a dollar he 'll never let no other wife o' his sit out on no porch o' his, not 'ntil after he's dead 'n' buried anyway; 'n' as for sittin' on a porch himself, well, all is I know 't if it was me it 'd scorch my rockers."

"What time do you think 't you '11 get back?" asked Mrs. Lathrop.

"I ain't sure. 'F I should get real interested huntin' orphans, I might stay until it was too dark to see 'em good. I can't tell nothin' about it, though. You 'd better watch for the light in the kitchen, 'n' when you see it burnin' I wish 't you'd come right over."

Mrs. Lathrop agreed to this arrangement, and Miss Clegg went home to get ready for town.

She returned about five o'clock, and the mere general aspect of her approaching figure betokened some doing or doings so well worthy of neighborly interest that Mrs. Lathrop left her bread in the oven and flew to satisfy her curiosity.

She found her friend warming her feet by the kitchen stove, and one look at her radiant countenance sufficed.

"You found a baby!"

Susan upraised supremely joyful eyes.

"No," she replied, "but I've bought the weepin' lion!"

Mrs. Lathrop sat suddenly down.

"You never saw anythin' so grand in all your life! He rubbed the 'Blank' off with a wet cloth 'n' wrote in the 'Henry' with me standin' right there. I never see anythin' that went right through me that way before. Puttin' on 'Henry' seemed to bring the lion right into the family, an'—well, you can believe me or not jus' as you please, Mrs. Lathrop, but I up 'n' begin to cry right then 'n' there. The monument man made me sit down on a uncut block 'n' lean my back up against a No-Cross-no-Crown, 'n' while I sat there he chalked in father's birth 'n' death 'n' 'Erected by his devoted daughter Susan,' 'n' at that I stood right up 'n' said 't I 'd take it, 'n' it wasn't no hasty decision, neither, f'r after I 'd made up my mind I couldn't see no good reason for continuin' to sit there 'n' draw frost out o' granite 'n' into my shoulder-blades jus' for the looks o' the thing."

"But about the ba—" said Mrs. Lathrop.

"Oh, the baby 'll have to go. I told you all along 't it had to be one or t' other an' in the end it's the lion as has come out on top. I guess I was n't cut out to be a mother like I was a daughter. I know 't I never wanted a baby for myself half like I 've wanted that lion for my dead 'n' gone father. Do you know, Mrs. Lathrop, I do believe 't I had a persentiment the first time I ever see that lion. Suthin' sort o' crep' right up my back, 'n' I 'm jus' sure 't folks 'll come from miles roun' to see it. I guess it's the Finger o' Fate. When you come to think o' it, it 's all for the best jus' the way 't it 's come out. The baby 'd 'a' grown up an' gone off somewhere, an' the lion 'll stay right where you put him, for he 's so heavy that the monument man says we 'll have to drive piles all down aroun' father. Then, too, maybe I could n't 'a' managed a boy an' I can scour that lion all I want to. 'N' I will scour him too,—nobody need n't suppose 't I've paid three hunderd dollars f'r anythin' to let it get mossy. I've invited the monument man 'n' his wife to come 'n' visit me while he's gettin' the lion in place, 'n' he says he's so pleased over me 'n' nobody else gettin' it 't he's goin' to give me a paper sayin' 't when I die he'll chop my date in f'r nothin'. I tell you what, Mrs. Lathrop, I certainly am glad 't I've got the sense to know when I'm well off, 'n' I cert'nly do feel that in this particular case I'm mighty lucky. So all 's well 't ends well."

Mrs. Lathrop nodded.

III

JATHROP LATHROP'S COW

Jathrop Lathrop was just the style and build of young man to be easily persuaded into taking a kicking cow in full payment of a good debt. Jathrop having taken the cow, it naturally fell to the lot of his mother to milk her. The reader can quickly divine what event formed the third of these easily to be foreseen developments of the most eventful day in the life of the cow's new proprietor. The kicking cow kicked Jathrop Lathrop's mother, not out of any especial antipathy towards that most innocuous lady, but just because it was of a kicking nature and Mrs. Lathrop was temptingly kickable. The sad part of the matter was that Mrs. Lathrop was not only kickable but breakable as well. It followed that at twelve o'clock that noon Miss Clegg, returning from a hasty trip to the city, was greeted at the depot by the sad tidings, and it was not until various of the town folk had finished their versions of the disaster that she was at last allowed to hasten to the bedside of her dear friend, whom she found not only in great bodily distress but also already cast in plaster.

Miss Clegg's attitude as she stood in the doorway was one of blended commiseration and disgust.

"Well, I never would 'a' believed it o' Jathrop!" she burst forth at last.

"'T wa'n't Jathrop," Mrs. Lathrop protested feebly; "it was the—"

"I know, but the cow never come of her own free will, 'n' it strikes me 't Jathrop's the one to blame. I never was so done up in my life 's I was when I hear this about you. You kin believe me or not jus' 's you please, Mrs. Lathrop, but I was so nigh to struck dead 't I stopped short with one leg on the station 'n' the other on the train. It was Johnny 's dodged out o' the ticket-office to tell me the minute the train stopped, 'n' I d'n' know but I'd be there yet—f'r I was clean struck all in a heap—only a man jus' behind jammed me with a case o' beer 't he was bringin' home. To think 's I see you goin' to the barn jus' 's I was lookin' f'r a place to hide my keys afore leavin', 'n' then to think 's them was your last legs 'n' you usin' 'em 's innocent 's a grasshopper on a May mornin'!—I tell you I was so used up I thought some o' askin' to be druv up here, but Johnny didn't have no time to give pertickilers 'cause the telegraph begin to work jus' at that very minute 'n' he had to dodge back to see what they wanted to tick him about, so I see 't the wisest thing was to walk up 'n' find out f'r myself. Besides, you c'n understand 't if you was beyond hope I'd be nothin' but foolish to pay a quarter to get to you in a hurry, 'n' I never was one to be foolish nor yet to waste quarters, 'n' so I come along through town, 'n' as a consequence I guess 't I know 's much 's you know yourself now."

Mrs. Lathrop looking duly inquisitive for details of her own accident, Miss Clegg advanced forthwith upon a seat and occupied it before beginning.

"I see Mrs. Macy first, 'n' she told me all as to how it happened. She says you turned two back somersaults 'n' just missed squashin' the cat, 'n' 't young Dr. Brown told her 't if he hadn't been so busy plantin' his garden to-day he certainly would 'a' felt 't it 'd 'a' been nothin' but right to diagnose you all over. Mrs. Macy says she ain't none too over-pleased 't the way he spoke, for, to her order o' thinkin', you had a pretty serious kick 'n' you'd ought to realize it. She wanted me to ask you 'f he had you hang to the head-board while he give your leg a good hard jerk, 'cause she says 't that's the only real safe way to make all the bones come back into place; she says 'f you ain't shattered you're bound to come straight pervided the doctor jerks hard enough. She says they did her lame leg that way over thirty years ago, 'n' she says 't, sittin' down 'n' side by side, she'd bet anything 't the minister 'n' all the deacons couldn't pick out one from t' other. She says all her trouble comes when she walks. Nights 'n' rockin' she'd never know she was lame herself."

Mrs. Lathrop looked slightly distressed.

"Gran'ma Mullins come up while we was talkin', 'n' she's terrible upset over you. She never had no lameness, she says; her trouble 's all in her ribs,—them ribs 't go from under your arms down. But she wants to know if you was put in plaster, 'n' she said f'r me to ask right off."

"Yes; I—" replied Mrs. Lathrop.

"Oh!" Susan's face darkened. "I declare, that's too bad. 'N' young Dr. Brown 's gone now too. I see him 'n' Amelia drivin' out towards the Sperrits' while I was in the square. Well, if it's on, it's on, 'n' the Lord be with you, Mrs. Lathrop, f'r 'f Gran'ma Mullins says truth, no one else c'n help you now. You see, she told Mrs. Macy 'n' me what plaster is. It's eatin', that's what it is. Plaster 'll eat anythin' right up, hide, hair, 'n' all. She says don't you know how, when you smell a dead rat in the wall, you throw some plaster in on him, 'n' after a while you don't smell no more rat 'cause there ain't no more rat there to smell; the plaster 's eat him all up. She says you may laugh 'f you feel so inclined, but there ain't no such big difference between your leg 'n' a dead rat but what it'll pay you to mark her words. She says 'f it don't do no more 'n eat the skin off it'll still be pretty hard for you to lay there without no skin 'n' feel the plaster goin' in more 'n' more. She says 't we all wish him well, 'n' yet no one in their right mind c'n deny as young Dr. Brown is n't old Dr. Carter, 'n' no amount o' well wishin' c'n ever make him so. She says 'f she was you she 'd never rest till old Dr. Carter 'd looked into that leg, f'r a leg is a leg, 'n' it says in the Bible 't if you lose your salt what 'll you salt with."

Mrs. Lathrop's distress deepened visibly.

"I tell you I was more 'n a little troubled over her words. Gran'ma Mullins ain't one to make up nothin', 'n' I know myself 't that 's true about the plaster. I 've eat up rats that way time 'n' again,—mice too, f'r that matter. It 'd be an awful thing f'r you to lay there peaceful 'n' happy till it come time f'r him to unwrap your leg 'n' then when he unwrapped have him find no leg in the centre. Nothin' 't he could say would help any—there you 'd be one leg gone forever. 'F it was your foot, it 'd all be different, f'r you could hop around right spry with a false foot, but I d'n' know what good your foot 'll do you with the leg in between gone. I never hear o' no real foot on a false leg, 'n' 'f I was you, I certainly wouldn't want to lay wonderin' 'f I still had two legs f'r six weeks."

"Six weeks!" cried Mrs. Lathrop, with a start that collapsed at once into a groan; "must I lay—"

"Gran'ma Mullins says," pursued Susan, "'t the reason she knows so much about it all is 't she had a cousin with a broken leg once. It wa'n't no cow 's kicked him, jus' he was give to meditatin', 'n' while meditatin' durin' house-cleanin' he stepped down the wrong side o' the step-ladder. She says the doctor didn't so much 's dream o' plasterin' him up, he put splints on him, 'n' he come out fine, but she says he was suthin' jus' awful to take care of. They thought they couldn't stand it the first weeks he was so terrible cross, but then his bones begin to knit, 'n' she says she hopes she may fall dead then 'n' there 'f she ever hear anythin' to equal that leg-knittin'. She said they was livin' so far out 't they could feel to leave him 'n' go to church Sunday, 'n' she says when they was comin' back they could hear him knittin' a good half-mile away."

"Dear, dear—" commented Mrs. Lathrop, giving a heave of unrest.

"Can you feel your leg now?" Susan inquired.

"Yes; I—"

"Then it 's all right so far, but, my! you mus' n't begin gettin' restless this soon. You ain't been kicked six hours yet, 'n' you 've got to lay that same way f'r six weeks. After a while it'll be pretty bad, I expeck, but you ain't got nothin' to complain of to-day. I see the minister just after I left Mrs. Macy, 'n' he said you must say to yourself, 'Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof' 'n' get along the best you can. I c'd see he was some put out over your gettin' a cow, f'r he c'd n't but understand 't with a cow over the fence I was n't goin' to be takin' milk from over the crick. He said 't your bein' kicked was a judgment 'n' the sins o' the parents should be visited on the children even unto the third 'n' fourth generation. I did n't know whose sins he was meanin', the cow's or Jathrop's, but I did n't ask. I guess we 'd ought to make allowances f'r the minister,—he ain't seemed to ever be able to bear up under them twins. He was pushin' 'em in the carriage to-day 'n' drawin' little Jane after him in a express wagon. I asked him how his wife was, 'n' he said she's doin' nicely, only she can't decide what to name the baby. He walked with me a piece; it seemed to do him good to speak out frank 'n' open, 'n' I guess he sees more 'n' more what a mistake he's made; he couldn't but see it, I sh'd suppose, f'r his wife 's had four children in three years, 'n' I didn't even adopt one. It's that four-in-three-years business 't seems to 'a' used him up the most. He says he never even had a idea 't it could be done. He says his first wife was so different, 'n' he says it's just been shock after shock, 'n' two shocks when the twins come. Little Jane caught her dress in a wheel while we was talkin', 'n' we had to turn her 'n' the express-wagon both upside down 't once afore we could unwind it, 'n' while we was doin' that, one o' the twins fell out o' the carriage. The minister says he don't thank no man to talk race-suicide when he's aroun'; he says his blood runs cold to think what his family 'll be at his silver weddin'. I tell you, Mrs. Lathrop, I will own 't I've always felt some sore at the minister on a'count o' his not marryin' me, but 'f I ever desired any species o' revenge I certainly 'd be hard to please 'f I didn't get it to-day when I see him with twins ahead 'n' little Jane behind 'n' nine at home."

Mrs. Lathrop sighed.

"That reminds me o' what I come over to ask you," said Susan. "Have you had any dinner?"

"No; I—"

"Then I'll fix you some when I cook mine. I c'n call Jathrop 'n' have him bring it over when it's ready. I see him in the yard when I come by; he was peekin' in at the cow. I ain't never had no great opinion o' Jathrop, but I guess he c'n carry a tray. 'N' now afore I leave you, Mrs. Lathrop, I will say jus' once more 's my advice is f'r you to keep a sharp eye on your leg, 'n' if it feels anyway like you can't feel nothin' I'd have that plaster off in a jiffy. How's it put on? Round 'n' roun'?"

"He's sent for the windin'," said Mrs. Lathrop weakly; "it's jus' got some plaster 'n' a long piece o' tore sheet."

Susan moved towards the door.

"It beats me what ever made you go near the hind end o' that cow for," she remarked, pausing on the threshold. "Don't you know as it 's the hind end 's always does the kickin'? The front end can't do nothin'—'nless it gores. Does she gore?"

"Oh, I d'n' know," wailed poor Mrs. Lathrop.

"I 'm goin'," said Miss Clegg, turning her back as she spoke. "You jus' lay still now 'n' think o' pleasant things. Nothin' else can't happen to you 'nless the house catches fire."

Then she went out and away.

It was late in the afternoon that Susan entered next door on her second visitation of mercy.

"Did you like your dinner?" she inquired, as she brought a rocker to where it would command a fine view of the bed and its occupant.

"Dinner! I ain't had no—"

Miss Clegg screamed.

"Ain't had no dinner! Why, I give it to Jathrop with my own hands. Everythin' hot, 'n' the whole tucked up nice in the cloth 't I put over the bird-cage nights. I made the tea awful strong so 's to keep up your strength, 'n' there was a scramble o' eggs, 'n' one was fresh, I know. Whatever c'n he have done with it, do you suppose?"

"Maybe he ate—" Mrs. Lathrop began.

Her friend chopped her off with a second scream.

"Ate it!—Jathrop Lathrop!—Do you mean to tell me 't I've been stewin' myself to feed Jathrop Lathrop! 'N' that good egg too. 'N' all my tea. I declare, but I am aggravated. The fire 's out now 'n' everythin' 's put away or I'd go 'n' cook you suthin' else, but I'd never trust that young man to carry it over."

"I ain't hun—" said Mrs. Lathrop.

"It's certainly your good luck 'f you ain't. But to think o' him havin' the face to eat up your dinner! But he's got the face fr anythin'. 'F it wasn't f'r hurtin' your feelin's, Mrs. Lathrop, I'd jus' up 'n' tell you 't, to my order o' thinkin', Jathrop always did look more like a frog 'n he did like his own father, 'n' I'll take my Bible oath 't I've told Mrs. Macy that a hunderd times. She says 't he ain't active enough to remind her o' no frog, but she always owns up 't his eyes 'n' mouth is like one. 'F I was talkin' to any one but you, I'd say, spot him with green 'n' he could make you a nice livin' alongside o' the dog-faced boy in a Dime Museum,—'n' never need to move. As a family, you ain't very lively anyhow, 'n' I ain't much surprised 't the cow 's gettin' out o' patience. She's been trampin' aroun' 'n' mooin' a lot this last hour. The minister was walkin' by with six o' the childern, 'n' the childern come 'n' asked 'f they could see the cow 't kicked you. I didn't see no good reason why not, so we boosted 'em all up so 's they'd have a good view o' her through the little window. The minister quoted 'Wild bulls o' Bashan' 'n' 'Muzzle not the ox 't treadeth out the corn,' 'n' I felt like askin' him 'f he didn't know a cow when he see one. She looked cross enough for any Bible talk, though, 'n' Rachel Rebecca was awful scared 'n' they all begin to cry. I took 'em into my kitchen 'n' give 'em a cooky apiece, 'n' that smoothed 'em out. The minister was real pleased; he quoted 'Even as ye did it unto the least o' these, ye did it unto me,' so I took the hint 'n' give him a cooky too. They was goin' up to Mrs. Brown's to tea. I must say she 's pretty good to have six o' 'em all to once."

Mrs. Lathrop twisted wearily.

"C'n you feel your leg?" her friend asked anxiously.

"Yes, I c'n feel—"

"Mrs. Macy was up this afternoon. She says she 's more 'n' more worried over you. She says it is n't as she don't wish young Dr. Brown well, 'n' she 's intendin' to call him in sometime herself when she knows jus' what 's the matter with her 'n' jus' what she 'd ought to take for it, but she says 't in your circumstances there ain't a mite o' doubt but what you 'd ought to have old Dr. Carter 's fast 's he could be raked over here from Meadville. She says legs is scarce birds, 'n' you can't go lavishin' one on every young man 's is anxious to build up a practice on you. She says how do you know 's it 's a clean break 's you've got there anyhow? Maybe it 's a fracture. A fracture 's when the bone splinters all to pieces 'n' fans out every way inside o' your leg. O' course young Dr. Brown ain't got beyond clean breaks yet, 'n' if you're splintered in place o' bein' clean you don't want him to learn the difference at your cost. If you lose your leg, Mrs. Lathrop, it certainly will be a awful thing for you. A woman can't ever say 's she was a brakeman or in the war, 'n' them 's the only good excuses 's can be give. Then, too, if you have a wooden leg 'n' the wind catches you at it, it'll take you in a way 's 'll make you look more like a scarecrow 'n a Christian. Mrs. Macy says 't she was speakin' to Mr. Kimball about you, 'n' he was nigh to serious f'r once in his life. She says he says 't they take the hair off o' horse-hides with plaster 'n' that wooden legs is very hard to get comfortable. I s'pose the long 'n' short of it would be 't I'd have to come over every mornin' 'n' hook it on to you,—'f it was left to Jathrop he'd probably have you half o' the time with your toes pointin' back 'n' your heel in front. C'n you feel it now?"

"Yes; I—"

"Then it's still there, but, Lord! how that cow does kick 'n' pull 'n' moo! Why don't Jathrop do suthin' to her? She'd ought to be tended to. When you come right square down to it, she ain't no more to blame f'r kickin' you 'n' he is f'r lookin' like a frog. They was each made so. But even then she'd ought to be milked jus' the same, 'n' Jathrop 'd ought to be settin' at it."

"I don't want—"

"It's got to be him or me or the butcher, 'n' I must say I don't see no good 'n' sufficient reason why it should be me. I didn't have Jathrop, nor yet the cow, 'n' I don't see why I sh'd lay myself open to bein' snapped off any where, jus' because your son 's half a fool—the head half."

Mrs. Lathrop groaned.

"Now there ain't no use in that" said Susan firmly; "lots o' things might be worse 'n they are. She might 'a' broken both your legs, or she may break both his when he tries to milk her to-night. You must look on the bright side, Mrs. Lathrop, 'n' not twist aroun' like you'd been in bed four weeks 'n' only had two more ahead o' you. The whole six is ahead now, 'n' instid o' wrigglin' 'n' sighin', you'd ought to think how good it is as I'm here to take care o' you. I must say 't, to my order o' thinkin', your leg is goin' to be pretty nigh 's hard on me 's on you. 'F I can't trust Jathrop to so much 's carry a tray after I've been to all the bother o' cookin' it, it stands to reason 's I must be kitin' with 'em all day long. I'm very friendly with you, Mrs. Lathrop, 'n' whether single or two-legged I'd never but wish you well; still, I am a rich woman, 'n' bein' a rich woman, it does seem kind o' hard for me to have to slave back 'n' forth over the fence for six weeks; but, such bein' the case, it strikes me 't, of us two, you certainly ain't the one 's 'd ought to be doin' the groanin'."

Mrs. Lathrop appeared contrite and dumb.

"I guess I'll go 'n' get supper now," said her visitor, rising; "when it's got I'll bring you over some. I ain't goin' to trust Jathrop with nothin' again, I know. To think o' his eatin' your dinner! I must say, Mrs. Lathrop, 't if you was cut out to be a mother, it certainly seems a pity 't you never got beyond Jathrop, for no one 's ever see him could believe it of you. However, I don't suppose 's any one in their senses could blame you f'r stoppin' right off short when you see what you 'd gone 'n' done the first time."

Mrs. Lathrop made no attempt to reply. Miss Clegg left the room, and returned not until she came with the supper.

"I did n't see Jathrop nowhere," she announced as she entered, "but the cow 's goin' on jus' awful."

"Jathrop 's gone for the—"

"Well, I am glad. The butcher 's the only one 's 'd ought to go near her. I persume I c'd 'a' milked her, 'n' 'f she 'd been my cow I w'd 'a' milked her, but bein' 's she wa'n't mine I did n't see no good 'n' sufficient reason why I sh'd so much 's take a interest in her. I will own 't I did sorter ache to see her kick Jathrop into kingdom come, but the chances are 't he'd 'a' come out alive, 'n' so it would n't 'a' paid in the end. I 'll be glad to hear her stop mooin', though. I was sick o' the noise afore she begun, 'n' she 's kep' right on ever since."

Mrs. Lathrop ate a little and drank a little, looking blandly non-committal as she did so. Miss Clegg rocked vigorously.

"I can't get that plaster out o' my head," she continued presently. "I wonder if it won't give you rheumatism anyhow. Deacon White got rheumatism from movin' into a house where the plaster was damp, 'n' it stands to reason it'd be worse yet if it's tied right tight to you. I must say 't I agree with Mrs. Macy; I think you'd ought to have old Dr. Carter. O' course it'll cost suthin' to have him over from Meadville, but it'll cost you a sight more to have a wooden leg up from the city. There ain't no sense in tryin' to save money over a kick, Mrs. Lathrop, 'n' what's the good o' your economizin' all these years 'f you can't indulge yourself a little when you want to? That's what Mr. Shores said to me—jus' them very self-same words—when he wanted to sell me that fancy green 'n' yellow parasol 's he had up f'r Easter. I didn't want no parasol, though; it had a pointed-nose dog f'r a handle, 'n' I didn't fancy myself goin' to church hangin' on to a dog's nose, even 'f it was silver-plated. I ain't no great admirer o' green 'n' yellow, neither, 'n' so I told him flat 'n' plain 't I wa'n't through my economizin' years yet. He sold the parasol to Mrs. Jilkins, 'n' she let it down on her thumb 'n' come nigh to breakin' her thumb. She says she won't carry no parasol 's she can't shut down without riskin' her thumb 'n' she 's goin' to give it to her niece over to Meadville. She says her niece is awful womans-rightsy, 'n' can swing dumb-bells 'n' look over backward 't her own heels, 'n' that parasol 'll be nothin' but child's play to her. I ain't no sympathy with such views myself—I never was one as believed overmuch in womans' rights. My idea is to let the men have the rights, 'n' then they're satisfied to let you do 's you please. 'S far 's my observa—Lord have mercy on us!"

The cause of the abrupt termination of Miss Clegg's speech was a sudden crashing back of the house, followed by a rush and a swish at the side. The friendly visitor made one jump for the window, took one look out, and was off and away. The door slammed before Mrs. Lathrop got her mouth open to ask what was the matter. She called, but no answer came. Then she waited, and waited some more, and finally grew weary in her waiting and fell asleep.

She slept long and dreamlessly. It was well after seven when the noise of footsteps awakened her.

It was Susan. Having left the tray behind in her mad flight of the night before, she had come over with the teapot in one hand and a plate of toast in the other. But it was not the breakfast which attracted Mrs. Lathrop's attention, it was the expression of her neighbor's face. Tidings of vast importance were deeply imprinted there, and when Miss Clegg set the teapot down and said, "Well, Mrs. Lathrop!" there was that within the tone of her voice which seemed to cause the very air to quiver in anticipation.

"Is anything the—"

"Matter?" Susan put down the toast and drew herself up to her full height as she spoke. "Yes, Mrs. Lathrop, a good deal is the matter. You ain't seen Jathrop, have you?"

"No; where—"

"He's gone!"

"Gone?"

"Gone. Mr. Weskin give him to understand as he'd better go somewhere 'n' he got on a train 'n' did it. If he hadn't, he might 'a' been lynched."

"Lynched!" screamed the mother, sitting suddenly up. A direful cracking resounded under the bed-clothes as she did so, but in the excitement of the moment its possible evil portent went unnoticed.

"Lynched," repeated Susan; "that's what I said, 'n' bein' 's I was brought up to speak the truth 'n' fear no man, you c'n depend upon its bein' so. But you must eat your breakfast, Mrs. Lathrop,—you mustn't go without eatin' or you'll lose your strength 'n' then blood poison 'll set in. 'N' that reminds me 't Mr. Weskin asked me yesterday if you'd made your will. Have you?"

"No; but I want to know about—"

"He says you'd ought to right off. He says there 's no tellin' where anythin' 'll end 'n' it 's wise to be prepared for the worst. He said he knowed a man as walked on a tack 'n' jus' called it a tack, 'n' first they had to cut off the tack 'n' then the toe 'n' then the foot, 'n' they kept on slicin' him higher 'n' higher till he died without no will a tall. I said you wasn't no tack but a cow, but he said it was all one, 'n' I guess it is 's far 's the lawyers go. I expeck it'd be only a poor lawyer 's couldn't argue a tack into a cow—'n' out of her again, too, f'r that matter—'n' Mr. Weskin ain't no poor—"

"But about Ja—"

"—Lawyer. He's 's fine 's they make. O' course a good deal o' the time no one knows what he means, but that ain't nothin' ag'in' him, f'r I think with a lawyer you ginerally don't. It's a part o' their business not to let no one know what they mean, f'r 'f law was simple no one 'd ever get fooled."

'N' Jath—"

"He's gone. You c'n make your mind easy about him, f'r he got away all safe. Hiram Mullins chased him clear to the station 'n' nigh to catched him, but there was a train jus' movin' out, 'n' Jathrop shinned up the little fire-escape on the back o' the calaboose 'n' was off. 'N' now 't he is gone, Mrs. Lathrop, I'm goin' to right out plain 'n' tell you to your face 's it's a good thing f'r you 's he is gone, 'n' you want to thank Heaven 's sent him to you 't that train was so handy to take him away ag'in."

"But what—" asked Mrs. Lathrop feebly.

"It was the cow," said Susan. "Don't you remember how I run last night? I hear a noise, 'n' my first thought was 's it was Jathrop or mebbe the butcher, but I got to the window jus' in time to see a tail make the turn o' the gate, 'n' the seein' the tail showed right off 's it warn't Jathrop nor yet the butcher. Seems 't Jathrop, not seein' no ring to tie her to, tied her to a spoke in the hay-rack 'n' in her mooin' she broke it. Seems't then she squose out into the chicken-coop 'n' then busted right through the wire nettin' 'n' set off. She run like wild fire, they say. She headed right f'r town 'n' down the main street. She come into the square lickety-split, 'n' the town committee was in the middle of it examinin' the band-stand where Judge Fitch says 't it shakes when he has to stamp 'n' pound in his speeches. She come on the committee so sudden 't they did n't even know what it was. She knocked Deacon White over on his back, 'n' threw Mr. Shores so hard ag'in' the waterin'-trough 't all his suspender tins come out before 'n' behind. Gran'ma Mullins was comin' across with six new teacups done up in each hand. Ed was comin' along after her with the saucers, but she'd told Mr. Kimball right out to his face as she would n't trust Ed with nothin' as had handles 'n' so she'd carry them cups home herself. The cow hit her cornering, 'n' them cups 'n' her false teeth went all over the square. Some o' 'em hit Deacon White in the face where he lay gaspin', but the cow never stopped. She jus' flew. Mr. Fisher was hurryin' along to join the rest o' the committee 't the bandstand, 'n' he met her next. She lowered her head 'n' jus' gouged Mr. Fisher's three-quarters around him 'n' tore right on. She took the crick road, 'n' Polly Allen 'n' Sam Duruy was out walkin' 'n' see her pass. They say greased lightenin' was donkeys to the way she went. The minister 'n' the six childern was jus' comin' home from Mrs. Brown's, 'n' the five childern at home was all come runnin' to meet them. The cow charged right into the middle o' the bunch, 'n' the minister 'n' all them eleven childern is laid out f'r one spell.

"Well, 'n' even then she did n't stop. Seemed like ploughin' through the minister's family only give her fresh strength. She kept right straight on down the crick road, 'n' jus' by the ditch she come on Mr. 'n' Mrs. Jilkins. They was comin' up to town to spend the night with the Whites, 'n' they had the green 'n' yellow parasol all done up to send to Mrs. Jilkins' niece along with 'em. The cow was 's unexpected to them as to every one else, 'n' she hit the parasol right square in the middle. It broke, 'n' the wires all bust out 'n' punched Mr. Jilkins full o' holes afore he had time to point it at his wife. She got her share anyhow, though, f'r that dog's nose handle caught her right aroun' her leg 'n' throwed her head foremost into the ditch.

"'N' the cow did n't stop then! She rushed right along, 'n' on the first bridge was Mrs. Macy. She was standin' wonderin' what was to pay up the road, 'n' then she see it was a cow. Well, Mrs. Lathrop, you know what Mrs. Macy is on cows. I hear her say one day as she 'd rather have a mouse run up her skirts any day 'n a cow. She told me 't she often go 'way round by Cherry Pond sooner 'n be alone with one in the road, 'n' such bein' the case, you can't suppose but what she was mortal scared. Her story is 's she only had time to see its horns 'n' the wildness of its eyes afore she never will know what did possess her. She never see a cow that near in all her life before, 'n' she says 'f that 's the way they look face to, she ain't surprised 't folks sit a little back when milkin'. It was nigh to on to her, 'n' you know yourself 't the bridge is narrow 'n' Mrs. Macy ain't. Well, Mrs. Lathrop, you c'n believe me or not jus' 's you please, 'cause it 'll be Mrs. Macy 's you 'll be doubtin' anyhow, but this is what she says happened. The bridge is here, you know," Susan laid off the plan on her knee, "'n' the road is here. The cow was runnin' like mad along here, 'n' Mrs. Macy was white 'n' tremblin' so 't the whole bridge shook under her, right atop of it. She says to her dyin' day she 'll never see how she done it, but she jus' grabbed her skirts, spread 'em out wide 'n' said 'Shoo!' 's loud 's she could. Her story is 't the cow stopped, like she was struck dumb that second; then she reared up 's pretty a rear 's Mrs. Macy 'll ever ask to see, 'n' then she fell sideways into the mill-race. The water was on full 'n' she went right down 'n' into the mill-wheel, 'n' some of her caught in it 'n' she could n't budge. It squinched her right up, 'n' she kicked some, 'n' mooed some, 'n' bust the wheel some, 'n' died.