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“And when anybody has been away a good while, they like to go all round and see all the places that’s familiar, if they do feel the changes.”

“Yes, I guess we’d better invite her to spend the afternoon,” said the old man, and they jogged on together in silence.

“Have you got everything you want to do with?”, asked Mr. Haydon kindly.

“Certain,” answered Maria, with satisfaction. “I never was acquainted with such a good provider as you be in all the houses I’ve ever stopped in; I can say that. You’ve remembered a number o’ things this past week that I should have forgot myself. I’ve seen what other women folks has to go through with, being obliged to screw every way an’ make up things out o’ nothing, afraid to say the flour’s gone or the sugar’s out. Them very husbands is the ones that’ll find most fault if their tables ain’t spread with what they want. I know now what made your wife always look so pleased an’ contented.”

“She was very saving an’ judicious by natur’,” said Mr. Haydon, as if he did not wish to take so much praise entirely to himself. “I call you a very saving woman too, Maria,” he added, looking away over the fields, as if he had made some remark about the grass.

The bright color rushed to Maria’s face, but she could not say anything. There was something very pleasant in the air; the fields appeared new to her and most beautiful; it was a moment of great happiness.

“I tell you I felt it dreadfully when I was alone all that time. I enjoy having somebody to speak with now about poor Martha,” said the old man, with great feeling.

“It was dreadful lonely for you, wa’n’t it?” said Maria, in her sensible, pleasant, compassionate tone.

“People meant well enough with their advice, but I was set so cross-wise that it all seemed like interference. I’d got to wait till the right thing came round–an’ it come at last,” announced Mr. Haydon handsomely. “I feel to be very grateful. Yes, I want to have Mis’ Chellis come an’ take tea, just as she used to. We’ll look over what’s left o’ poor Marthy’s little things, an’ select something to give her for a remembrance. ‘T ain’t very likely she’ll come ‘way East again at her time o’ life. She’s havin’ a grand time; it acts to me just like a last visit.”

“I’ll make some nice pound-cake to-morrow, and we’ll ask her next day,” said Maria cheerfully, as they turned into the lane.

Maria Haydon’s life had been spent in trying to make other people comfortable, and so she succeeded, oftener than she knew, in making them happy. Every day she seemed to forget herself, and to think of others more; and so, though old Mrs. Chellis missed her friend when she came to tea the next day but one, she soon forgot the sadness of the first few minutes, and began to enjoy the kind welcome of Mr. Haydon and his present companion.

A little later Mr. Haydon was coming back from one of his fields to look after some men whom he and his son had set to work at ditching. Most of the talk that afternoon had naturally been connected with his first wife, but now everything along his path reminded him of Maria. Her prosperous flock of young turkeys were heading northward at a little distance out across the high grass land; and below, along the brook, went the geese and goslings in a sedate procession. The young pear-trees which she had urged him to set out looked thrifty and strong as he passed, and there were some lengths of linen bleaching on a knoll, that she had found yellowing in one of the garret chests. She took care of everything, and, best of all, she took great care of him. He had left the good creature devoting herself to their guest as if she were an old friend instead of a stranger–just for his sake and his wife’s sake. Maria always said “your wife” when she spoke of her predecessor.