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Cyrus gave one swift glance at his wife. “There! you see!” it said plainly. “I am not without defenders.” He took down his shaving-mug, with an air of some bravado. But Mirandy was no shrew; she was simply troubled about many things.

“Well,” she said, compressing her lips, and wrinkling her forehead in resignation. “If folks want to kill themselves, I can’t hender ’em! But when he’s down ag’in, I shall be the one to take care of him, that’s all. Here, Cyrus, don’t you go into that cold bedroom. You shave you here, if you’re determined to do it.”

So Cyrus, after honing his razor, with the pleasure of a bored child provided at last with occupation, betook himself to the glass set in the lower part of the clock, and there, with much contortion of his thin visage, proceeded to shave. Mirandy put her potatoes on to boil, and set the fish on the stove to freshen; then She sat down by the window, with a great basket beside her, and began to bind shoes.

“Here,” said Mrs. Wadleigh, coming to her feet and adjusting her skirt, “you give me a needle! I’ve got my thimble right here in my pocket. It’s three months sence I’ve seen a shoe. I should admire to do a pair or two. I wish I could promise ye more, but somehow I’m bewitched to git over home right arter dinner!”

Mrs. Pendleton laid down her work, and leaned back in her chair. Cyrus turned, cleared his throat, and looked at her.

“Marthy,” said the hostess, “you ain’t goin’ over there to that lonesome house, this cold snap?”

“Ain’t I?” asked Mrs. Wadleigh, composedly, as she trimmed the top of her shoe preparatory to binding it. “Well, you see’f I ain’t!”

“In the fust place,” went on Mrs. Pendleton, nervously, “the cross-road ain’t broke out, an’ you can’t git there. I dunno’s a horse could plough through; an’ s’posin’ they could, Cyrus ain’t no more fit to go out an’ carry you over’n a fly.”

“Don’t you worry,” said Mrs. Wadleigh, binding off one top. “While I’ve got my own legs, I don’t mean to be beholden to nobody. I’ve had a proper nice time all winter, fust with Lucy an’ then with Ann,–an’ I tell ye ’tain’t everybody that’s got two darters married so well!–but for the last fortnight, I’ve been in a real tew to come home. They’ve kep’ me till I wouldn’t stay no longer, an’ now I’ve got so near as this, I guess I ain’t goin’ to stop for nobody!”

Mrs. Pendleton looked despairingly at her husband; and he, absently wiping his razor on a bit of paper, looked at her.

“Marthy!” she burst forth. “No, Cyrus, don’t you say one word! You can’t go! There’s somebody there!”

Mrs. Wadleigh, in turn, put down her work.

“Somebody there!” she ejaculated. “Where?”

“In your house!”

“In my house? What for?”

“I dunno,” said Mirandy, unhappily.

“Dunno? Well, what are they doin’ there?”

“I dunno that. We only know there’s somebody there.”

Here the brown-bread kettle boiled over, creating a diversion; and Mirandy gladly rose to set it further back. A slight heat had come into Mrs. Wadleigh’s manner.

“Cyrus,” said she, with emphasis, “I should like to have you speak. I left that house in your care. I left the key with you, an’ I should like to know who you’ve been an’ got in there.”

Cyrus opened his mouth, and then closed it again without saying a word. He looked appealingly at his wife; and she took up the tale with some joy, now that the first plunge had been made.

“Well,” she said, folding her hands in her apron, and beginning to rock back and forth, a little color coming into her cheeks, and her eyes snapping vigorously. “You see, this was the way ’twas. Cyrus, do let me speak!” Cyrus had ineffectually opened his mouth again. “Wa’n’t it in November you went away? I thought so. Jest after that first sprinklin’ o’ snow, that looked as if ‘twould lay all winter. Well, we took the key, an’ hung it up inside the clock–an’ there ’tis now!–an’ once a week, reg’lar as the day come round, Cyrus went over, an’ opened the winders, an’ aired out the house.”