when I set out this morning" (as if I
had openly reproached her!); "I only felt one o' them travelin' fits
comin' on, an' I ketched up my little basket; I didn't know but I might
turn and come back time for dinner. I thought it wise to set out your
luncheon for you in case I did n't. Hope you had all you wanted; yes,
I hope you had enough."

"Oh, yes, indeed," said I. My landlady was always peculiarly bountiful
in her supplies when she left me to fare for myself, as if she made a
sort of peace-offering or affectionate apology.

"You know that hill with the old house right on top, over beyond the
heron swamp? You 'll excuse me for explainin'," Mrs. Todd began, "but
you ain't so apt to strike inland as you be to go right along shore.
You know that hill; there 's a path leadin' right over to it that you
have to look sharp to find nowadays; it belonged to the up-country
Indians when they had to make a carry to the landing here to get to the
out' islands. I 've heard the old folks say that there used to be a
place across a ledge where they 'd worn a deep track with their
moccasin feet, but I never could find it. 'T is so overgrown in some
places that you keep losin' the path in the bushes and findin' it as
you can; but it runs pretty straight considerin' the lay o' the land,
and I keep my eye on the sun and the moss that grows one side o' the
tree trunks. Some brook's been choked up and the swamp's bigger than
it used to be. Yes; I did get in deep enough, one place!"

I showed the solicitude that I felt. Mrs. Todd was no longer young,
and in spite of her strong, great frame and spirited behavior, I knew
that certain ills were apt to seize upon her, and would end some day by
leaving her lame and ailing.

"Don't you go to worryin' about me," she insisted, "settin' still's the
only way the Evil One 'll ever get the upper hand o' me. Keep me
movin' enough, an' I 'm twenty year old summer an' winter both. I
don't know why 't is, but I 've never happened to mention the one I 've
been to see. I don't know why I never happened to speak the name of
Abby Martin, for I often give her a thought, but 't is a dreadful
out-o'-the-way place where she lives, and I haven't seen her myself for
three or four years. She's a real good interesting woman, and we 're
well acquainted; she 's nigher mother's age than mine, but she 's very
young feeling. She made me a nice cup o' tea, and I don't know but I
should have stopped all nig