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“Come, Rosie,” said he, “we’ll be goin’.”

It was a very effective finale, but still Amelia suspected no trickery. The situation seemed to her, just as the two new actors did, entirely simple, like the course of nature. Only, the day was a little warmer because they had appeared. She had a new sensation of welcome company. So it was that, quite to her own surprise, she answered as quickly as he spoke, and her reply also seemed an inevitable part of the drama:–

“Walk right in. It’s ‘most dinner-time, an’ I’ll put on the pot.” The two stepped in before her, and they did not go away.

Amelia herself never quite knew how it happened; but, like all the other natural things of life, this had no need to be explained. At first, there were excellent reasons for delay. The man, whose name proved to be Enoch Willis, was a marvelous hand at a blow, and she kept him a week, splitting some pine knots that defied her and the boy who ordinarily chopped her wood. At the end of the week, Amelia confessed that she was “terrible tired seein’ Rosie round in that gormin’ kind of a dress;” so she cut and fitted her a neat little gown from her own red cashmere. That was the second reason. Then the neighbors heard of the mysterious guest, and dropped in, to place and label him. At first, following the lead of undiscouraged fancy, they declared that he must be some of cousin Silas’s connections from Omaha; but even before Amelia had time to deny that, his ignorance of local tradition denied it for him. He must have heard of this or that, by way of cousin Silas; but he owned to nothing defining place or time, save that he had been in the war–“all through it.” He seemed to be a man quite weary of the past and indifferent to the future. After a half hour’s talk with him, unseasonable callers were likely to withdraw, perhaps into the pantry, whither Amelia had retreated to escape catechism, and remark jovially, “Well, ‘Melia, you ain’t told us who your company is!”

“Mr. Willis,” said Amelia. She was emulating his habit of reserve. It made a part of her new loyalty.

Even to her, Enoch had told no tales; and strangely enough, she was quite satisfied. She trusted him. He did say that Rosie’s mother was dead; for the last five years, he said, she had been out of her mind. At that, Amelia’s heart gave a fierce, amazing leap. It struck a note she never knew, and wakened her to life and longing. She was glad Rosie’s mother had not made him too content. He went on a step or two into the story of his life. His wife’s last illness had eaten up the little place, and after she went, he got no work. So, he tramped. He must go again. Amelia’s voice sounded sharp and thin, even to her, as she answered,–

“Go! I dunno what you want to do that for. Rosie’s terrible contented here.”

His brown eyes turned upon her in a kindly glance.

“I’ve got to make a start somewhere,” said he. “I’ve been thinkin’ a machine shop’s the best thing. I shall have to depend on somethin’ better ‘n days’ works.”

Amelia flushed the painful red of emotion without beauty.

“I dunno what we’re all comin’ to,” said she brokenly.

Then the tramp knew. He put his gnarled hand over one of hers. Rosie looked up curiously from the speckled beans she was counting into a bag, and then went on singing to herself an unformed, baby song. “Folks’ll talk,” said Enoch gently. “They do now. A man an’ woman ain’t never too old to be hauled up, an’ made to answer for livin’. If I was younger, an’ had suthin’ to depend on, you’d see; but I’m no good now. The better part o’ my life’s gone.”