it to
yourself; 'taint a mortal bit er use startin' things on a dead man."

But whether the widow belonged to the large group of females with a
passion for martyrdom or whether she was less a martyr in telling her
secret than in keeping it, who shall say? For in reply she shook her
head, removing her handkerchief, though permitting her tears to flow
faster than ever.

"My late husband was this boy Sam's father," she went on quickly, once
she had fairly started. "I might have guessed it years agone if I'd ever
thought on it; seems like I can recall now numbers of times when he
tried to tell me this himself, and as he was so often askin' me to be
kind to Sam and give him a chance I more'n half took a dislike to the
lad. Lately I've been goin' through some old papers and, well, there
ain't no more to be said 'ceptin' as I've no children of my own I'm
goin' to make this Sam my heir; I've already writ out the papers."

With the ending of this speech Uncle Ambrose enjoyed one of the most
exquisite moments of his later years. Not that he was so transfigured by
the proof of his own innocence, since the annoyance that the scandal had
caused had passed that evening in church, and most certainly not because
he enjoyed hearing the reputation of Peachy's former husband damaged,
but because the expressions on the faces of his rivals proved what his
wits had already discovered, that the two men were not after the widow
for herself, but because of the abundance and fruitfulness of her
fields.

What the widow herself saw it was impossible to tell, for almost
immediately after, with her face still buried in her handkerchief, she
left the room, and the three men could see her through the window
hurrying across the front lawn.

Left alone, the Honorable Calvin was the first to speak. Drawing out a
delicately scented white handkerchief he wiped a slight dampness from
about his lips. "I suppose the widow does not fully understand this boy
has no legal claim on her," he said thoughtfully.

The minister sighed, waving a fat hand. "A little remembrance, say a
thousand dollars or so, as a start in life would be quite sufficient."

Uncle Ambrose smiled. "I reckon you gentlemen had better talk this
matter over with Mrs. Tarwater. Women have such foolish, softhearted
ways of tryin' to save the innocent and help the guilty when they're
able; 'taint law and 'taint gospel, mebbe, but it's woman."

Then seeing that the legislator had risen to