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But Heman pushed his way past her and escaped, muttering something about “feedin’ the critters.” Perhaps the “critters” under his care were fed oftener than those on farms where the ingle-nook was at least as cosey as the barn.

These slight skirmishes always left Heman with an uneasy sense that somehow he also must be to blame, though he never got beyond wondering what could have been done to avert the squall. When he went back into the kitchen, however,–the “critters” fed, and his own nerves soothed by pitchforking the haymow with the vigor of one who assaults a citadel,–he was much relieved at finding the atmosphere as clear as usual; and as the early twilight drew on, he became almost happy at thought of; the vivid pleasure before him. Never, since his wife died, had he played his bass-viol in public; but he had long been in the habit of “slying off” upstairs to it, as to a tryst with lover or friend whom the world denied. The Widder Poll, though she heard it wailing and droning thence, never seriously objected to it; the practice was undoubtedly “shaller,” but it kept him in the house.

They ate supper in silence; and then, while she washed the dishes, Heman changed his clothes, and went to the barn to harness. He stood for a moment, irresolute, when the horse was ready, and then backed him into the old blue pung. A queer little smile lurked at the corners of his mouth.

“I guess the shoe’ll go once more,” he muttered. “No, I ain’t goin’ to marry ag’in! I said I ain’t, an’ I ain’t. But I guess I can give a neighbor a lift, if I want to!”

Brad Freeman was waiting near the tack door when Heman led the horse out of the barn. He was lank and lean, and his thick red hair strayed low over the forehead. His army overcoat was rent here and there beyond the salvation which lay in his wife’s patient mending, and his old fur cap showed the skin in moth-eaten patches; yet Heman thought, with a wondering protest, how young he looked, how free from care.

“Hullo, Heman!” called Brad.

“How are ye?” responded Heman, with a cordiality Brad never failed to elicit from his brother man.

Heman left the horse standing, and opened the back door.

He stopped short. An awful vision confronted him,–the Widder Poll, clad not only in the Tycoon rep, but her best palm-leaf shawl, her fitch tippet, and pumpkin hood; her face was still bandaged, and her head-gear had been enwound by a green barege veil. She stepped forward with an alertness quite unusual in one so accustomed to remembering her weight of mortal flesh.

“Here!” she called, “you kind o’ help me climb in. I ain’t so spry as I was once. You better give me a real boost. But, land! I mustn’t talk. I wouldn’t git a mite of air into that tooth for a dollar bill.”

Heman stepped into the house for his bass-viol, and brought it out with an extremity of tender care; he placed it, enveloped in its green baize covering, in the bottom of the pung. Some ludicrous association between the baize and the green barege veil struck Brad so forcibly that he gave vent to a chuckle, sliding cleverly into a cough. He tried to meet Heman’s eye, but Heman only motioned him to get in, and took his own place without a word. Brad wondered if he could be ill; his face had grown yellowish in its pallor, and he seemed to breathe heavily.

Midway in their drive to the vestry, they passed a woman walking briskly along in the snowy track. She was carrying her singing-books under one arm, and holding her head high with that proud lift which had seemed, more than anything else, to keep alive her girlhood’s charm.

“There’s Roxy,” said Brad. “Here, Heman, you let me jump out, an’ you give her a lift.” But Heman looked straight before him, and drove on.