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“Yer takin’ a Christian view of yer own disappointment, Brother Gideon,” she said, with less astringency of manner; “but every heart knoweth its own sorrer. I’ll be gettin’ supper now that the baby’s sleepin’ sound, and ye’ll sit by and eat.”

“If you let me help you, Sister Hiler,” said the young man with a cheerfulness that belied any overwhelming heart affection, and awakened in the widow a feminine curiosity as to his real feelings to Meely. But her further questioning was met with a frank, amiable, and simple brevity that was as puzzling as the most artful periphrase of tact. Accustomed as she was to the loquacity of grief and the confiding prolixity of disappointed lovers, she could not understand her guest’s quiescent attitude. Her curiosity, however, soon gave way to the habitual contemplation of her own sorrows, and she could not forego the opportune presence of a sympathizing auditor to whom she could relieve her feelings. The preparations for the evening meal were therefore accompanied by a dreary monotone of lamentation. She bewailed her lost youth, her brief courtship, the struggles of her early married life, her premature widowhood, her penurious and helpless existence, the disruption of all her present ties, the hopelessness of the future. She rehearsed the unending plaint of those long evenings, set to the music of the restless wind around her bleak dwelling, with something of its stridulous reiteration. The young man listened, and replied with softly assenting eyes, but without pausing in the material aid that he was quietly giving her. He had removed the cradle of the sleeping child to the bedroom, quieted the sudden wakefulness of “Pinkey,” rearranged the straggling furniture of the sitting-room with much order and tidiness, repaired the hinges of a rebellious shutter and the lock of an unyielding door, and yet had apparently retained an unabated interest in her spoken woes. Surprised once more into recognizing this devotion, Sister Hiler abruptly arrested her monologue.

“Well, if you ain’t the handiest man I ever seed about a house!”

“Am I?” said Gideon, with suddenly sparkling eyes. “Do you really think so?”

“I do.”

“Then you don’t know how glad I am.” His frank face so unmistakably showed his simple gratification that the widow, after gazing at him for a moment, was suddenly seized with a bewildering fancy. The first effect of it was the abrupt withdrawal of her eyes, then a sudden effusion of blood to her forehead that finally extended to her cheekbones, and then an interval of forgetfulness where she remained with a plate held vaguely in her hand. When she succeeded at last in putting it on the table instead of the young man’s lap, she said in a voice quite unlike her own,–

“Sho!”

“I mean it,” said Gideon, cheerfully. After a pause, in which he unostentatiously rearranged the table which the widow was abstractedly disorganizing, he said gently, “After tea, when you’re not so much flustered with work and worry, and more composed in spirit, we’ll have a little talk, Sister Hiler. I’m in no hurry to-night, and if you don’t mind I’ll make myself comfortable in the barn with my blanket until sun-up to-morrow. I can get up early enough to do some odd chores round the lot before I go.”

“You know best, Brother Gideon,” said the widow, faintly, “and if you think it’s the Lord’s will, and no speshal trouble to you, so do. But sakes alive! it’s time I tidied myself a little,” she continued, lifting one hand to her hair, while with the other she endeavored to fasten a buttonless collar; “leavin’ alone the vanities o’ dress, it’s ez much as one can do to keep a clean rag on with the children climbin’ over ye. Sit by, and I’ll be back in a minit.” She retired to the back room, and in a few moments returned with smoothed hair and a palm-leaf broche shawl thrown over her shoulders, which not only concealed the ravages made by time and maternity on the gown beneath, but to some extent gave her the suggestion of being a casual visitor in her own household. It must be confessed that for the rest of the evening Sister Hiler rather lent herself to this idea, possibly from the fact that it temporarily obliterated the children, and quite removed her from any responsibility in the unpicturesque household. This effect was only marred by the absence of any impression upon Gideon, who scarcely appeared to notice the change, and whose soft eyes seemed rather to identify the miserable woman under her forced disguise. He prefaced the meal with a fervent grace, to which the widow listened with something of the conscious attitude she had adopted at church during her late husband’s ministration, and during the meal she ate with a like consciousness of “company manners.”