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William crossed the room toward her, and bent his head close to her ear.

“Feelin’ pretty well to-day, Mis’ Hight?” he asked, with all the voice his narrow chest could muster.

“No, I ain’t, William. Here I have to set,” she answered coldly, but she gave an inquiring glance over his shoulder at me.

“This is the young lady who is stopping with Almiry this summer,” he explained, and I approached as if to give the countersign. She offered her left hand with considerable dignity, but her expression never seemed to change for the better. A moment later she said that she was pleased to meet me, and I felt as if the worst were over. William must have felt some apprehension, while I was only ignorant, as we had come across the field. Our hostess was more than disapproving, she was forbidding; but I was not long in suspecting that she felt the natural resentment of a strong energy that has been defeated by illness and made the spoil of captivity.

“Mother well as usual since you was up last year?” and William replied by a series of cheerful nods. The mention of dear Mrs. Blackett was a help to any conversation.

“Been fishin’, ashore,” he explained, in a somewhat conciliatory voice. “Thought you’d like a few for winter,” which explained at once the generous freight we had brought in the back of the wagon. I could see that the offering was no surprise, and that Mrs. Hight was interested.

“Well, I expect they ‘re good as the last,” she said, but did not even approach a smile. She kept a straight, discerning eye upon me.

“Give the lady a cheer,” she admonished William, who hastened to place close by her side one of the straight-backed chairs that stood against the kitchen wall. Then he lingered for a moment like a timid boy. I could see that he wore a look of resolve, but he did not ask the permission for which he evidently waited.

“You can go search for Esther,” she said, at the end of a long pause that became anxious for both her guests. “Esther ‘d like to see her;” and William in his pale nankeens disappeared with one light step and was off.

VI.

“Don’t speak too loud, it jars a person’s head,” directed Mrs. Hight plainly. “Clear an’ distinct is what reaches me best. Any news to the Landin’?”

I was happily furnished with the particulars of a sudden death, and an engagement of marriage between a Caplin, a seafaring widower home from his voyage, and one of the younger Harrises; and now Mrs. Hight really smiled and settled herself in her chair. We exhausted one subject completely before we turned to the other. One of the returning turkeys took an unwarrantable liberty, and, mounting the doorstep, came in and walked about the kitchen without being observed by its strict owner; and the tin dipper slipped off its nail behind us and made an astonishing noise, and jar enough to reach Mrs. Hight’s inner ear and make her turn her head to look at it; but we talked straight on. We came at last to understand each other upon such terms of friendship that she unbent her majestic port and complained to me as any poor old woman might of the hardships of her illness. She had already fixed various dates upon the sad certainty of the year when she had the shock, which had left her perfectly helpless except for a clumsy left hand which fanned and gestured, and settled and resettled the folds of her dress, but could do no comfortable time-shortening work.

“Yes ‘m, you can feel sure I use it what I can,” she said severely. “‘Twas a long spell before I could let Esther go forth in the mornin’ till she ‘d got me up an’ dressed me, but now she leaves things ready overnight and I get ’em as I want ’em with my light pair o’ tongs, and I feel very able about helpin’ myself to what I once did. Then when Esther returns, all she has to do is to push me out here into the kitchen. Some parts o’ the year Esther stays out all night, them moonlight nights when the dogs are apt to be after the sheep, but she don’t use herself as hard as she once had to. She ‘s well able to hire somebody, Esther is, but there, you can’t find no hired man that wants to git up before five o’clock nowadays; ‘t ain’t as ‘t was in my time. They ‘re liable to fall asleep, too, and them moonlight nights she’s so anxious she can’t sleep, and out she goes. There’s a kind of a fold, she calls it, up there in a sheltered spot, and she sleeps up in a little shed she ‘s got,–built it herself for lambin’ time and when the poor foolish creatur’s gets hurt or anything. I ‘ve never seen it, but she says it’s in a lovely spot and always pleasant in any weather. You see off, other side of the ridge, to the south’ard, where there’s houses. I used to think some time I ‘d get up to see it again, and all them spots she lives in, but I sha’n’t now. I ‘m beginnin’ to go back; an’ ‘t ain’t surprisin’. I ‘ve kind of got used to disappointments,” and the poor soul drew a deep sigh.