"Well, ain't she got a good enough home to keep her mother in?"
"Yes, she has. But she got her home along with her husband, an' he won't have the old soul any more 'n M'lissy would."
There was another silence. Isaphene had put the cake in the oven. She knelt on the floor and opened the door very softly now and then, to see that it was not browning too fast. The heat from the oven had crimsoned her face and arms.
"Guess you'd best put a piece of paper on top o' that cake," sand her mother. "It smells kind o' burny like."
"It's all right, maw."
Mrs. Bridges looked out the window.
"Ain't my flowers doin' well, though, Mis' Hanna?
"They are that. When I come up the walk I couldn't help thinkin' of poor old Mis' Lane."
"What's that got to do with her?" There was resentment bristling in Mrs. Bridges's tone and glance.
Mrs. Hanna stopped crocheting, but held her hands stationary in the air, and looked over them in surprise at her questioner.
"Why, she ust to live here, you know."
"She did! In this house?"
"Why, yes. Didn't you know that? Oh, they ust to be right well off 'n her husband's time. I visited here consid'rable. My! the good things she always had to eat! It makes my mouth water to think of them."
"Hunh! I'm sorry I can't give you as good as she did," said Mrs. Bridges, stiffly.
"Well, as if you didn't! You set a beautiful table, Mrs. Bridges, an', what's more, that's your reputation all over. Everybody says that about you."
Mrs. Bridges smiled deprecatingly, with a faint blush of pleasure.
Poor old Mis' Lane.
"They do, Mis' Bridges. I just told you about Mis' Lane because you'd never think it now of the poor old creature. An' such flowers 's she ust to have on both sides of that walk! Larkspurs an' sweet-williams an' bachelor's buttons an' pomgranates an' mournin' widows, an' all kinds. Guess you didn't know she set out that pink cabbage-rose at the north end o' the front porch, did you? An' that hop-vine that you've got trained over your parlor window—set that out, too. An' that row of young alders between here an' the barn—she set them all out with her own hands; dug the holes herself. It's funny she ain't never told you she lived here."
"Yes, it is," said Mrs. Bridges, slowly and thoughtfully.
"It's a wonder she never broke down an' cried when she was visitin' here. She can't mention the place without cryin'."
A dull red came into Mrs. Bridges's face.
"She never visited here."
"Never visited here!" Mrs. Hanna had her crochet and her hands in her lap, and stared. "Why, she visited everywhere. That's the way she managed to keep out o' the poor-house so long. Everybody was real consid'rate about invitin' her. But I expect she didn't like to come here, because she thought so much of the place."
Isaphene looked over her shoulder at her mother, but the look was not returned. The beans were sputtering nervously into the pan.
"Ain't you got about enough, maw?" she said. "That pan seems to be gettin' hefty."
"Yes, I guess." She got up, brushing the strings off her apron, and set the pan on the table. "I'll watch the cake now, Isaphene. You put the beans on in the
