lled a carpet bag with corn to pop and nuts to crack, for
the children of her expected hostess and had "set up" a fresh pair of
long stockings to knit for Abel. She now called him from the stable
into the living room to hear her last remarks.

"If I should be kep' over night, Abel, you'll find a plenty to eat.
There's a big pot of baked beans in the lean-to, and some apple pies,
and a pumpkin one. The ham's all sliced ready to fry, and I do hope to
goodness you won't spill grease 'bout on this rag carpet. I'm the only
woman anywhere 's round has a rag carpet all over her floor, any way,
and the idee of your sp'ilin' it just makes me sick. I----"

"But I hain't sp'iled it yet, ma. You hain't give me no chance. If you
do--"

"If I do! Ain't I leavin' you to get your own breakfast, in case I
don't come back? It might rain or snow, ary one, an' then where'd I
be?"

"Right where you happened to be at, I s'pose," returned Abel,
facetiously.

But it was wasted wit. The idea of being storm-stayed now filled the
housewife's mind. She was capable, and full of New England gumption;
but her husband "was a born botch." True, he could split a log, or
clear a woodland with the best; and as for a ploughman, his richly
fertile corn bottom and regular eastern-sort-of-garden testified to
his ability. But she was leaving him with the possibility of woman's
work to do; and as she reflected upon the condition of her cupboard
when she should return and the amount of cream he would probably
spill, should he attempt to skim it for the churning, her mind misgave
her and she began slowly to untie the great hood.

"I believe I won't go after all."

"Won't go, ma? Why not?"

"I'm afraid you'll get everything upset."

"I won't touch a thing more 'n I have to. I'll set right here in the
chimney-corner an' doze an' take it easy. The fall work's all done,
an' I'd ought to rest a mite."

"Rest! Rest? Yes. That's what a man always thinks of. It's a woman who
has to keep at it, early an' late, winter an' summer, sick or well.
If I should go an' happen to take cold, I don't know what to the land
would become of you, Abel Smith."

"I don't either, ma."

There was a long silence, during which Mercy tied and untied her
bonnet-strings a number of times; and each time with a greater
hesitancy. Finally, she pulled from her head the uneasy covering and
laid it on the table. Then she unpinned her shawl, and Abel regarded
these signs ruefully. But