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“They’re smart,” answered Maria, seating herself to her work again, after the expedition to the pantry.

“I tell ye this is beautiful pie,” said the guest, looking up, after a brief and busy silence; “a real comfortable help o’ pie, after such a walk, feeble as I be. I’ve failed a sight sence you see me before, now ain’t I?”

“I don’t know’s I see any change to speak of,” said Maria, bending over the coat.

“Lord bless you, an’ Heaven too! I ain’t eat no such pie as this sence I was a girl. Your rule, was it, or poor Mis’ Haydon’s?”

“I’ve always made my pies that same way,” said Maria soberly. “I’m pleased you should enjoy it.”

“I expect my walk give me an extry appetite. I can walk like a bird, now, I tell ye; last summer I went eleven miles, an’ ag’in nine miles. You just ought to see me on the road, an’ here I be, goin’ on seventy-seven year old. There ain’t so many places to go to as there used to be. I’ve known a sight o’ nice kind folks that’s all gone. It’s re’lly sad how folks is goin’. There’s all Mis’ Nash’s folks passed away; the old doctor, an’ the little grandgirl, an’ Mis’ Nash that was like a mother to me, an’ always had some thin’ to give me; an’ down to Glover’s Corner they’re all gone”–

“Yes, anybody feels such changes,” replied Maria compassionately. “You’ve seen trouble, ain’t you?”

“I’ve seen all kinds of trouble,” said the withered little creature, mournfully.

“How is your daughter to South Atfield gettin’ along?” asked the hostess kindly, after a pause, while Polly worked away at the pie.

“Lord bless you! this pie is so heartenin’, somehow or ‘nother, after such a walk. Susan Louisa is doin’ pretty well; she’s a sight improved from what she was. Folks is very considerate to Susan Louisa. She goes to the Orthodox church, an’ sence she was sick there’s been a committee to see to her. They met, fifteen in number. One on ’em give her two quarts o’ milk a day. Mr. Dean, Susan Louisa’s husband, died the eighth day o’ last March.”

“Yes, I heard he was gone, rather sudden,” said Maria, showing more interest.

“Yes, but he was ‘twixt eighty an’ ninety year old. Susan Louisa was but fifty-one in February last.”

“He’d have done better for you, wouldn’t he, Mis’ Norris?” suggested Maria, by way of pleasantry, but there was a long and doubtful pause.

“I had rather be excused,” said Polly at last, with great emphasis. “Miss Maria Durrant, ain’t you got a calico dress you could spare, or an apron, or a pair o’ rubbers, anyways? I be extra needy, now, I tell you! There; I ain’t inquired for William’s folks; how be they?”

“All smart,” said Maria, for the second time; but she happened to look up just in time to catch a strange gleam in her visitor’s eyes.

“Mis’ William don’t come here, I expect?” she asked mysteriously.

“She never was no great of a visitor. Yes, she comes sometimes,” answered Maria Durrant.

“I understood William had forbid her till you’d got away, if she was your own cousin.”

“We’re havin’ no trouble together. What do you mean?” Maria demanded.

“Well, my hearing ain’t good.” Polly tried to get herself into safe shelter of generalities. “Old folks kind o’ dreams things; you must excuse me, Maria. But I certain have heard a sight o’ talk about your stoppin’ here so long with Mr. Haydon, and that William thought you was overdoin’, an’ would have spoke, only you was his wife’s cousin. There’s plenty stands up for you; I should always be one of ’em my self; you needn’t think but I’m a friend, Maria. I heard somebody a-remarking that you was goin’ to stay till you got him; an’ others said Mr. Israel Haydon was one to know his own mind, and he never would want to put nobody in his wife’s place, they set so by one another. An’ I spoke a good word for ye. I says, ‘Now look here! ‘t ain’t ‘s if Mari’ Durrant was a girl o’ twenty-five; she’s a smart capable creatur’,’ says I, ‘an””–