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“I ain’t goin’ to let nobody touch a hair o’ your head,” and Mr. Briley moved a little nearer, and tucked in the buffaloes again.

“I feel considerable warm to what I did,” observed the widow by way of reward.

“There, I used to have my fears,” Mr. Briley resumed, with an inward feeling that he never would get to North Kilby depot a single man. “But you see I hadn’t nobody but myself to think of. I’ve got cousins, as you know, but nothin’ nearer, and what I’ve laid up would soon be parted out; and–well, I suppose some folks would think o’ me if anything was to happen.”

Mrs. Tobin was holding her cloud over her face,–the wind was sharp on that bit of open road,–but she gave an encouraging sound, between a groan and a chirp.

“‘T wouldn’t be like nothin’ to me not to see you drivin’ by,” she said, after a minute. “I shouldn’t know the days o’ the week. I says to Susan Ellen last week I was sure ’twas Friday, and she said no, ’twas Thursday; but next minute you druv by and headin’ toward North Kilby, so we found I was right.”

“I’ve got to be a featur’ of the landscape,” said Mr. Briley plaintively. “This kind o’ weather the old mare and me, we wish we was done with it, and could settle down kind o’ comfortable. I’ve been lookin’ this good while, as I drove the road, and I’ve picked me out a piece o’ land two or three times. But I can’t abide the thought o’ buildin’,–‘twould plague me to death; and both Sister Peak to North Kilby and Mis’ Deacon Ash to the Pond, they vie with one another to do well by me, fear I’ll like the other stoppin’-place best.”

“I shouldn’t covet livin’ long o’ neither one o’ them women,” responded the passenger with some spirit. “I see some o’ Mis’ Peak’s cookin’ to a farmers’ supper once, when I was visitin’ Susan Ellen’s folks, an’ I says ‘Deliver me from sech pale-complected baked beans as them!’ and she give a kind of a quack. She was settin’ jest at my left hand, and couldn’t help hearin’ of me. I wouldn’t have spoken if I had known, but she needn’t have let on they was hers an’ make everything unpleasant. ‘I guess them beans taste just as well as other folks’,’ says she, and she wouldn’t never speak to me afterward.”

“Do’ know’s I blame her,” ventured Mr. Briley. “Women folks is dreadful pudjicky about their cookin’. I’ve always heard you was one o’ the best o’ cooks, Mis’ Tobin. I know them doughnuts an’ things you’ve give me in times past, when I was drivin’ by. Wish I had some on ’em now. I never let on, but Mis’ Ash’s cookin’s the best by a long chalk. Mis’ Peak’s handy about some things, and looks after mendin’ of me up.”

“It doos seem as if a man o’ your years and your quiet make ought to have a home you could call your own,” suggested the passenger. “I kind of hate to think o’ your bangein’ here and boardin’ there, and one old woman mendin’, and the other settin’ ye down to meals that like’s not don’t agree with ye.”

“Lor’, now, Mis’ Tobin, le’s not fuss round no longer,” said Mr. Briley impatiently. “You know you covet me same’s I do you.”

“I don’t nuther. Don’t you go an’ say fo’lish things you can’t stand to.”

“I’ve been tryin’ to git a chance to put in a word with you ever sence–Well, I expected you’d want to get your feelin’s kind o’ calloused after losin’ Tobin.”

“There’s nobody can fill his place,” said the widow.

“I do’ know but I can fight for ye town-meetin’ days, on a pinch,” urged Jefferson boldly.

“I never see the beat o’ you men fur conceit,” and Mrs. Tobin laughed. “I ain’t goin’ to bother with ye, gone half the time as you be, an’ carryin’ on with your Mis’ Peaks and Mis’ Ashes. I dare say you’ve promised yourself to both on ’em twenty times.”