onnelly was
thumping away at a handful of belated ironing, and Mrs. Dunleavy,
estranged and solitary, sighed as she listened to the iron. She was
sociable by nature, and she had an impulse to go in and sit down as she
used at the end of the ironing table.

"Wisha, the poor thing is mad at me yet, I know that from the sounds of
her iron; 't was a shame for her to go picking a quarrel with the likes
of me," and Mrs. Dunleavy sighed heavily and stepped down into her
flower-plot to pull the distressed foxgloves back into their places
inside the fence. The seed had been sent her from the old country, and
this was the first year they had come into full bloom. She had been
hoping that the sight of them would melt Mrs. Connelly's heart into
some expression of friendliness, since they had come from adjoining
parishes in old County Kerry. The goat lifted his head, and gazed at
his enemy with mild interest; he was pasturing now by the roadside, and
the foxgloves had proved bitter in his mouth.

Mrs. Dunleavy stood looking at him over the fence, glad of even a
goat's company.

"Go 'long there; see that fine little tuft ahead now," she advised him,
forgetful of his depredations. "Oh, to think I 've nobody to spake to,
the day!"

At that moment a woman came in sight round the turn of the road. She
was a stranger, a fellow country-woman, and she carried a large
newspaper bundle and a heavy handbag. Mrs. Dunleavy stepped out of the
flower-bed toward the gate, and waited there until the stranger came up
and stopped to ask a question.

"Ann Bogan don't live here, do she?"

"She don't," answered the mistress of the house, with dignity.

"I t'ought she did n't; you don't know where she lives, do you?"

"I don't," said Mrs. Dunleavy.

"I don't know ayther; niver mind, I 'll find her; 't is a fine day,
ma'am."

Mrs. Dunleavy could hardly bear to let the stranger go away. She
watched her far down the hill toward the bridge before she turned to go
into the house. She seated herself by the side window next Mrs.
Connelly's, and gave herself to her thoughts. The sound of the
flatiron had stopped when the traveler came to the gate, and it had not
begun again. Mrs. Connelly had gone to her front door; the hem of her
calico dress could be plainly seen, and the bulge of her apron, and she
was watching the stranger quite out of sight. She even came out to the
doorstep, and for the first time in many weeks looked with friendly