n't want none," said Hetty tenderly. She
steadied the bowl on its way back, and 'Melia, relinquishing the claims
of entertainment, picked into her small mouth with a swift avidity.

"Clever little creatur'!" Hetty continued, in a frank aside.

But Grandsir had not heard.

"How old was Willard?" he inquired, pausing to test the mass his mortar
held.

The tears came into her eyes.

"Thirty-four," she answered.

"How old?"

After she had repeated it, 'Melia turned suddenly, and made a solemn
statement.

"I picked off my gloxinias and gave 'em all to Willard." She lisped on
the name, and made it a funny flower.

Hetty was trembling.

"Yes, dear, yes," she responded prayerfully. "They were real handsome
blooms. I was obleeged to ye." She wondered if the lisping mouth would
say, "There's another one open," and the fat hand pluck it for her. She
shut her lips and tried to seal her mind, lest the child should be
prompted and the test should fail.

"I dunno 's I remember what year Willard's father died?" Grandsir was
inquiring.

"O Lord!" breathed Hetty, "I can't bear no more."

She threw her shawl over her head, and hurried out.

"Come again," the childish voice called after her.

Grandsir had begun to eat his nuts. He scarcely knew she had been there.

Hetty went swiftly homeward through the dusk. The damp air was clogging
to the breath, and for a moment her warm kitchen seemed a refuge to her.
But only for a moment. It was very still.

"I'll give it up," she said. "There's flowers in the world, an' not one
for me. I might 'a' had 'em if He'd took the trouble to send. That
proves it. There ain't anybody to send,--nor care."

She walked about in a grim scorn of everything: the world, the way it
was made, and herself for trusting it. When she had made a cup of tea
and broken bread, the warmth came back to her chilled heart, and
suddenly her scorn turned against herself.

"I said I'd wait till twelve o'clock to-night," she owned. "I'm the one
that's petered out. This is the last word I speak till arter twelve."

She fortified herself with stronger tea, and sat grimly down to knit.
The minutes and the half-hours passed. She rose, from time to time, and
fed the fire, and once, at eleven, when a cold rain began, she put her
face to the pane.

"Dark as pitch!" she muttered. "If anybody's comin', they couldn't see
their way."

Then she lighted another lamp and set it in the window. It was a quarter
before