garden, she'd bought.
I s'pose she must 'a' had five or six hundred dollars when the farm was
sold, an' she made a good deal by sewin', besides. She was settin' at
her work when I went in, an' knowed me at onst, though I don't believe
I'd ever 'a' knowed _her_. She was old, an' thin, an' hard-lookin'; her
mouth was pale an' sot, like she was bitin' somethin' all the time; an'
her eyes, though they was sunk into her head, seemed to look through an'
through an' away out th' other side o' you.

"It jist shut me up when she looked at me. She was so corpse-like I was
afraid she'd drop dead, then and there: but I made out at last to say,
'Rachel, I've come all the way from Illinois to see you.' She kep'
lookin' straight at me, never sayin' a word. 'Rachel,' says I, 'I know
I've acted bad towards you. God knows I didn't mean to do it. I don't
blame you for payin' it back to me the way you're doin', but Mary Ann
an' the boy never done you no harm. I've come all the way o' purpose
to ask your forgiveness, hopin' you'll be satisfied with what's _been_
done, an' leave off bearin' malice agin us.' She looked kind o'
sorrowful-like, but drawed a deep breath, an' shuck her head, 'Oh,
Rachel,' says I,--an' afore I knowed it I was right down on my knees at
her feet,--'Rachel, don't be so hard on me. I'm the onhappiest man that
lives. I can't stan' it no longer. Rachel, you didn't use to be so
cruel, when we was boys an' girls together. Do forgive me, an' leave
off' hauntin' me so.'

"Then she spoke up, at last, an' says she,--

"'Eber Nicholson, I was married to you, in the sight o' God!'

"'I know it,' says I; 'you say it to me every night; an' it wasn't my
doin's that you're not my wife now: but, Rachel, if I'd 'a' betrayed
you, an' ruined you, an' killed you, God couldn't 'a' punished me wuss
than you're a-punishin' me.'

"She giv' a kind o' groan, an' two tears run down her white face. 'Eber
Nicholson,' says she, 'ask God to help you, for I can't. There might 'a'
been a time,' says she, 'when I could 'a' done it, but it's too late
now.'

"'Don't say that, Rachel,' says I; 'it's never too late to be merciful
an' forgivin'.'

"'It doesn't depend on myself,' says she; 'I'm _sent_ to you. It's th'
only comfort I have in life to be near you; but I'd give up that, if I
could. Pray to God to let me die, for then we shall both have rest.'

"An' that was all I could git out of her.

"I come home ag'in, knowin' I'd spent my money