She put the lid slowly back. Like all the other pieces in the top of the stove, it was bent and warped with age. It fell into place clattering. The fire crackled, and shone through the gaps and chinks in the uneven surface. Then came a silence, so long that while mother and son stood there looking at each other it seemed to Harden as if his words still sounded in the quiet room, and as if they had not been said gently enough.
When she spoke, her voice was quite steady, a sweet and level voice.
"Yes, Marden, I have been, a little."
"Oh"—he broke out, then stopped blankly, and turned to another question. "What did you come down and build the fire and do all these things for? You might have let me, this—this"—
"I wanted to do it for once," she said simply.
He crossed the room at a stride, and they kissed each other. There were no further words between them, and no further glances. But as they moved about the bare little room, bringing the knives and spoons and the cheap,
