old log-house
stood by the green roadside; the wood of the roof and walls was
weathered and silver-gray. Before it a clothes-line was stretched,
heaved tent-like by a cleft pole, and a few garments were flapping in
the wind, chiefly white, but one was vivid pink and one tawny yellow.

The nearer aspect of the log-house was squalid. An early apple-tree at
the side had shed part of its fruit, which was left to rot in the grass
and collect flies, and close to the road, under a juniper bush, the rind
of melons and potato peelings had been thrown. There was no fence; the
grass was uncut. Upon the door-step sat a tall woman, unkempt-looking,
almost ragged. She had short gray hair that curled about her temples;
her face was handsome, clever-looking too, but, above all, eager. This
eagerness amounted to hunger. She was looking toward the sky, nodding
and smiling to herself.

Susannah stopped upon the road a few feet from the juniper bush. It
occurred to her that this was Joseph Smith's mother, who had the
reputation of being a speywife. The sky-gazer did not look at her.

"Are you Lucy Smith?"

The woman clapped her hands suddenly together and laughed aloud. Then
she rose, but, only glancing a moment at the visitor, she turned her
smiling face again toward the sky.

Into Susannah's still defiant mood darted the thought of a new
adventure. "Will you tell my fortune?"

"Who am I to tell fortunes when my son Joseph has come home?" Again came
the excited laugh. "It's the grace of God that's fallen on this house,
and Lucy Smith, like Elizabeth, the wife of Zacharias, is the mother of
a prophet."

"He isn't a prophet," said Susannah, taking a step backward.

"Seven years ago was his first vision, and all the people trampling upon
him since to make him gainsay it, but he stood steadfast. I dreamed
it--when he was a little child I dreamed it, and it has come true."
Then, seeming to return into herself, her gaze wandered again to the
sky, and she murmured, "The mother of a prophet, the mother of a
prophet!"

On the other side of the road a few acres of ground were lying under
disorderly cultivation. In one patch the stalks of sweet maize had been
fastened together in high stooks, disclosing the pumpkin vines, which
beneath them had plentifully borne their huge fruit, green as yet. At
the back of this cultivated portion an old man, the elder Joseph Smith,
was digging potatoes; his torn shirt fluttered like the dress of a
scar