o yore pa. I knowed it would jest make him resort
to lyin', an' at the bottom he was a good, pious man. He jest couldn't
quit thinkin' o' that yaller-headed woman an' her blue eyes an' shiny
store shoes. I jest pitied 'im like he was a baby. It went on till he
got sick, an' many an' many a day he'd lie thar helpless an' look out
towards the cow-lot, wistful like, an' I knowed he was thinkin' o' that
pictur'. He was lookin' that way when he drawed his last breath. It
may 'a' been jest a notion o' mine, fer some said he was unconscious
all that day, but it looked that away to me. I nussed him through his
sickness as well as I could, an' attended to every wish he had till he
passed away. Now, you know some'n' else, Sally. You know why I never
put up no rock at his grave. The neighbors has had a lots to say about
that one thing--most of 'em sayin' I was too stingy to pay fer it, but
it wasn't that, darlin'. It was jest beca'se I had too much woman
pride. When I promised the Lord to love an' obey, it was not expected
that I'd put up a rock over another woman's man if he was dead. Sally,
you are a sight more fortunate than you think you are."

Sally rose, the steely look was still in her eyes, her face was like
finely polished granite. Mrs. Dawson got up anxiously, and together
they passed through the gate. They could see the red fire of Peter
Slogan's pipe, and the vague form of his wife standing over him.

"Now, darlin'--" began Mrs. Dawson, but Sally checked her.

"Don't talk to me any more, mother," she said, impatiently. "I want to
be quiet and think--oh, my God, have mercy on me!"

Mrs. Dawson said nothing more, and with a sinking heart she saw the
stricken child of her breast walk on into her room and close the door.

"Whar's she been?" asked Mrs. Slogan, aggressively.

"She went to git out o' re'ch o' yore tongue," said the widow,
desperately.

To this apt retort Mrs. Slogan could not reply, but it evoked an amused
laugh from her appreciative husband.

"Well, Sally didn't shorely try to do that afoot, did she?" he gurgled.
"Looks like she'd 'a' tuck a train ef sech was her intention."

Mrs. Dawson passed into the house and through the dining-room into her
own small apartment and closed the door. She lighted a tallow-dip and
placed it on the old-fashioned bureau, from which the mahogany
veneering had been peeling for years. Her coarse shoes rang harshly on
the smooth, bare floor. She sank in