work and
child-bearing, and looking faded and worn as one of the boulders that
lay beside the pasture fence near where she sat milking a large white
cow.

She had no shawl or hat and no shoes, for it was still muddy in the
little yard, where the cattle stood patiently fighting the flies and
mosquitoes swarming into their skins already wet with blood. The
evening was oppressive with its heat, and a ring of just-seen
thunder-heads gave premonitions of an approaching storm.

An observer seeing Lucretia Burns as she rose from the cow's side, and
taking her pails of foaming milk staggered toward the gate, would have
been made weak with sympathetic pain. The two pails hung from her lean
arms, her bare feet slipped on the filthy ground, her greasy and faded
calico dress showed her tired, swollen ankles, and the mosquitoes
swarmed mercilessly on her neck and bedded themselves in her colorless
hair.

The children were quarrelling at the well and the sound of blows could
be heard. Calves were querulously calling for their milk, and little
turkeys lost in the tangle of grass were piping plaintively.

The sun just setting struck through a long, low rift like a boy
peeping beneath the eaves of a huge roof. Its light brought out
Lucretia's face as she leaned her sallow forehead on the top bar of
the gate and looked towards the west.

It was a pitifully worn, almost tragic face,--long, thin, sallow,
hollow-eyed. The mouth had long since lost the power to shape itself
into a kiss, and had a droop at the corners which seemed to announce a
breaking down at any moment into a despairing wail. The collarless
neck and sharp shoulders showed painfully.

She felt vaguely that the night was beautiful, the setting sun, the
noise of frogs, the nocturnal insects beginning to pipe--all in some
way called her girlhood back to her, though there was little in her
girlhood to give her pleasure. Her large gray eyes (her only
interesting feature) grew round, deep, and wistful as she saw the
illimitable craggy clouds grow crimson, roll slowly up, and fire at
the top. A childish scream recalled her.

"Oh my soul!" she half groaned, half swore, as she lifted her milk and
hurried to the well. Arriving there, she cuffed the children right and
left with all her remaining strength, saying in justification:--

"My soul! can't you--you young 'uns give me a minute's peace? Land
knows, I'm almost gone up--washin' an' milkin' six cows, and tendin'
you and