re. He
paused and leaned against the fence. The firelight shone in the old
woman's face; it was sad and careworn. Somehow she reminded him of his
mother, as she had looked a short time before she died. He started on
slowly, but came back again to the same spot. Luke wiped his mouth on
the corner of the table-cloth, rose from the table, and went out at the
back door. Westerfelt heard his merry whistle at the barn. Mrs.
Bradley filled a large pan with dishes and took them into the kitchen.
Mrs. Dawson bent over the fire. Something in the curve of her back and
the trembling way she held her hands to the blaze made him think again
of his mother. He hesitated a moment, then, lifting the ring from the
post, he pushed the gate open and went round the house and into the
kitchen.

In a corner dimly lighted by a tallow-dip, and surrounded by pans,
pots, and cooking utensils, Mrs. Bradley stood washing dishes. She
turned when he entered.

"Why," she exclaimed, "I--I thought you'd gone; what are you comin' in
the back way fer?"

"I've got something to say to--to her," he said, in a low tone. "I
thought I'd ask you to stay out here for a minute--I won't be long."

She said nothing for a moment, but looked at him strangely, as she
slowly dried her hands on a dish-towel. Then she burst out impulsively:

"John Westerfelt, ef Luke wusn't so particular 'bout my conduct with
men, I'd kiss you smack dab in the mouth an' hug you; no wonder women
make fools of the'rse'ves about you. Ef anybody ever dares agin to say
anything agin yore character to me, I'll--"

She choked up, turned to the corner, and dived into her dishpan, and he
saw only her back. He went into the next room. Mrs. Dawson's dull
glance was fixed on the coals under the logs. She started when she
looked up and saw him behind her, and shrank from him in a pitiful
blending of fright and questioning astonishment as he drew a chair near
to hers and sat down.

"What do you want, man?" she asked, looking towards the kitchen door,
as if she hoped Mrs. Bradley would appear.

"I want to talk to you, Mrs. Dawson," he said. "I don't want you to
hate me any longer. I am awfully sorry for you; I did you a big
injury, but I didn't do it on purpose. I did not dream it would end
like it did. I have suffered over it night and day. It will stick to
me the rest of my life."

The old woman was rapidly regaining her self-possession and with it her
hatred of him; he