THE woman who told me this had no more idea that she was telling a story — a story with a plot and climax — than she had an idea that her bonnet, a wonderful creation of red feathers and black lace, was crooked; and any one who saw her complacent round face saw at the same time that she was totally unconscious of that angular fact. Had she been told of the bonnet, or gotten sight of it in any available window or mirror, it is reasonably certain the story would never have been finished. Women of her class are easily plunged into selfconsciousness, and are more readily confused by it than those of classes above them who have learned to hide their feelings. This woman, it was very evident, knew nothing whatever of this art.

She was a large woman, with a lively, happy face. She wore her dress cut away a little, a bit V, though it was in the street car that I saw her. Her neck, burned almost as red as her face, which was a shade off the red feathers, had creases in it like that of a man who works in the sun. At the back of her neck a few hairs were gathered tightly around a brown kid curler, consciousness of which, had it come to her, would also very certainly have stopped the story. Such things are trivial. In another type of woman I should not have cared, but I felt sorry as I thought of her finding out about that brown kid curler at night when she took her hair down. I knew it would spoil the whole day for her. Children are like that. They imagine when they find out such a tragedy about themselves that everybody has been conscious of it, that they have been a laughing - stock to every one; but not many women of this woman’s age, who have gone through a woman’s experience, — love, marriage, child-bearing, child-losing, and the rest, — retain any such childlikeness. I knew she had it, though. This was not instinctive either; anybody could have seen it. It might have been suggested to even a very poor student of human nature by the round lines of her eyes, by the plump look about her wrists, and the complacent way her fat, freckled hands — crossing each other at the wrist over her stomach — fell loose and goodnatured, — the hand with a big seal ring on its second finger being very naturally on top. I had the feeling that when she found that curler at night she was going to look frightened first, then dismayed; then I felt sure she would say, “Oh, my sakes! ” Just as I was thinking this, she jolted over against me with the jolting of the street car, and said rather apologetically, “Oh, my sakes! Ain’t these cars a caution!

— The way they do take on!”

That was the end of it, and she settled herself again somewhat closer to a thin, sour-visaged little man who sat next her and wore a G. A. R. hat with a cord about it. We were on the front seat of an open car. It stopped a moment, and I moved closer to the woman to let some one take the place next me. Then the bell rang, the brass brake ripped with the sound of tearing a brass seam open, and this time I jolted a bit toward her. I had no time to apologize, for she said quickly, —

“That’s all right! Don’t they take on, though! My sakes!” Then, as though to make me more comfortable, “Do you live out this way? ”

“No,” I said, instinctively putting affability into the word.

“Oh, you don’t! ” as if she perhaps ought not to have supposed so. I don’t know why she should have seemed to me hurt, but she did, and I said, —

“No, I don’t live out this way at all; I live in quite the other direction — way across the river in Kentucky. ” I said this exactly as one would talk to a child whose approbation one covets.

“ You do! Well now ! Why, you ’ re a Southerner then! ” She turned a little and looked at me with genuine admiration.

I nodded and smiled. I think that smile really got me the story.

“Well now! Jim! this lady’s a Southerner! ” She turned to the soured little man beside her, but he made no motion to show he had heard. “Well now! Why, Jim’s first wife was a Southerner. Yas she was. She was from Virginia. And you ’re a Southerner! Well now! I’m that tired! But I just love the G. A. R. meetin’s. We always go. Jim ain’t strong. I allus tell ’im it does him a sight o’ good. Jim got wounded at Chickamauga. He got wounded twice, onct in his shoulder, onct through his arm — there ; ” she felt of her own fat elbow. “He was carried off fer dead, Jim was. He ’d a-holt o’ the flag, you know. Awful dangerous! My, yes! I allus told him ef he ’s ever went into another fight he ’s t’ let the flag be. But then I don’t guess he would. Most like as not he ’d go carryin’ it again, —Jim’s got his own notions, — an’ get his other arm hit so he couldn’t shet up the shutters at night fer me. He can’t carry coal now. It ’s awful bein’ wounded like that. Jim’s had his share. It ’uz fer the country o’ course, an’ they allus give us a good time at the G. A. R. They alius show they ’re obliged fer what Jim an’ the rest o’ the boys did.”

Here she paused to look at a big float of the “Union Forever” from which a rather bedraggled Columbia was getting down into the street. She watched it with the keen interest of a child as long as it was visible, then she turned to me: —

“I can’t help thinkin’ of you bein’ a Southerner. There ain’t many here. I allus kind o’ liked Southerners. The girls is some of um awful pretty and sweet. Some of um ain’t, of course, but some of um is. Law sakes! I ’ve heard o’ them Southern girls till you can’t see. There ain’t hardly one o’ the G. A. R. boys but as is got a story of ’em to tell. Yas, Jim’s first wife was a Southern girl. She was livin’ in Virginia durin’ the war, and Jim he was a-fightin’ an’ a-raidin’ an’ a-tearin’ up gener’ly in Virginia. He an’ some other fellus went out one day a-raidin’ to get somethin’ to eat, that’s how come Jim first saw her. Say, Jim,” — she turned again to the little man beside her, — “tell the lady how it was you first come to see Sally.”

“Jim” might have been stone deaf, for he made no sign of having heard. The hollows about his eyes and temples were unpleasant, and his mouth showed lines of petty ill temper and illness. Yet it was unmistakable that he had been handsome in his own way. His features were clear, and his eyes, although not kind, must have at one time held a certain attraction. Though a little man, he had sharp, almost aggressively square shoulders. His wife was evidently used to his dogged silence. She did not urge him, but began quite brightly: —

“Well, they got into Sally’s house, you see, like they used to do a-raidin’, and they said they wanted somethin’ to eat. An’ Sally — Jim did n’t know her then — she up an’ says, her eyes a-flashin* —Sally she had lovely eyes — she up an’ says, she says, ‘ You ’re a set o’ sneakin’ cowards. Yas, a set of damned sneakin’ cowards ’ (this in lip pantomime, with eyebrows raised) ; ' you ain’t worth,’ she says, ‘ the powder to blow you up, ’ she says, ‘ else I ’d get it an’ blow you up! ’ she says. Sally was terrible sperited. Well, they went on a-takin’ things like as if she had n’t ’a’ spoke. Jim he was sargent or somethin, ’ an’ he jest tol’ um to go on like as if there warn’t a woman within gunsliootin’. Jim allus was kind o’ commandin’, an allus did know how to treat high-sperited folks. Y’ ought to see Jim with our boy Willy! Tommy ’s a good boy, but Willy got to takin’ notions in his head here not long ago, an’ Jim he just settled him, he did, in just about two shakes, so that I reckon Willy ain’t had a notion sence. I let Jim do all the managin’. Jim says I ain’t got no command at all; no more I have, I reckon. Well, Sally she watched um jest white, like things get when they ’re boilin’, then she lef’ um an’ lit out upstairs. Jim he kind o’ suspicioned she was up to somethin’, so he lef’ the rest haulin’ over the cupboard, and follered her. When he got up there she ’d gone into her bedroom, Sally had. Jim he opened the door. There was an old fourposter with cretonne ruffles on it top and bottom. I never did like um, did you? They hol’ the dust, an’ they do say dust is terrible unhealthy. I dunno how we lived to get here, no way, with all them unhealthy old folks’ notions; I used to sleep in one of um myself. Sally was a-settin’ on the bed, an’ Jim he — Aw, Jim, ” — she turned again to the soured little man, pleadingly this time, “you tell the lady how you got the saddle.”

“You’d think, Carrie,” said the man fretfully, “it was somethin’ big I done. ” And he relapsed into his dogged silence.

“Well, so it was,” said the woman proudly; then quite cheerfully, despite this damper: “Well, Jim he says to her, he says, ‘ Wot you got under that bed ? ’ An’ Sally she says, clincliin’ her ban’,

‘ There ain’t nothin’ under it! ’an’ Jim he says cool, you know, ‘ Then you don’t mind my lookin’, I reckon.’ He come and took a-holt o’ the cretonne ruffle, an’ Lordy! ef she did n’t up and swing her foot out an’ fetch him a lick right in his breast. Jim’s awful quick; he ’s got a temper, but he ’s cool. The general complimented him high on it once. Sally was awful pretty then. And then them Union boys they kind o’ liked the way them Southern girls helt out. Well, Jim he caught a-holt of her foot, —that’s one thing Jim allus did say fer Sally, she did have little feet, — an’ he says, Them ain’t made to kick Union soldiers with,’ he says, — Jim ’s got a awful cute tongue, — ‘ an’ they ain’t made to stand on Union soldiers’ necks with, neither,’ he says. ‘The thing they ’re best a-doin’ is runnin’ to fetch Union soldiers water and things to eat. Now while I holt um I’ll just look under here a minute.’ Sally was terrible hot, but Jim he just kep’ cool an’ kep’ a-holt of her ankles tight, an’ he dragged out from under the bed a side-saddle. It’s a beaut, too; all little red tassels around the flap. Sally’s paw had give it to her. Then Sally she screamed an’ twisted away from him an’ run an’ stood in the door, her eyes a-lookin’ like they ’d strike fire, an’ she says — Aw, Jim, tell the lady what Sally says about the saddle.”

The man made no answer. She turned again and took up the narrative cheerfully: “Well, she says, says she, ' If you take that saddle, yas, ’ she says, ‘ if you take that saddle out o’ here it ’s goin’ to be acrost my dead body. Yas it is!’ she says, just a-chokin’ with mad. Jim he looked at it careful. It’s a fine saddle, but it warn’t no particular use to Jim. Course he could ’a’ solt it, I guess, but ’t was a side-saddle, you know, no good to him. But it just kind o’ riled him to see her a-holtin’ out like that, like she wasn’t afraid o’ him ner no devil, Union ner Reb, that she ’d ever saw; an’ I don’t guess she was then, neither. He just thought he’d kind o’ like to tame her; Jim he allus likes to do anythin’ he sets his head to ; an’ he says to her, says he, ' Ef I ’da mind to holt yer wrists like I did yer feet, I reckon I’d get out over your live body, but it ain’t the use o’ doin’ it, I guess. You ’re too pretty a little thing,’ he says, ‘ an’ I wouldn’t hurt you ’less the general commanded it. Ain’t there no back stairs ? ’ There was a door an’ a hall an’ some stairs at the other side o’ the room. ‘ I won’t trouble you, ’ Jim says, says he ; ' I ’ll go out this way with it. ’

“When Jim got to the other fellus, they laughed at him a-carryin’ away a side-saddle, an’ when he tol’ um about it, one of um heard a chipmunk scrapin’ a nut, an’ he says, ' That ’s her grindin’ her teeth, I guess.’ ' No,’ says Jim,

' she’s likelier cryin’, ’ says he. ' Naw, she ain’t,’ says Dick Brady,—you don’t know Dick Brady, — well, ' Naw, she ain’t,’ says Dick, ‘she ’s too high-sperited to cry. ’ ”

The woman looked a moment into my face with a childlikeness of dawning thought, — a something she had overlooked ; then she said soberly and very kindly: —

“I ’d not tell you this, an’ you a Southerner, ’cep’n’ o’ course Sally she loved Jim afterward, you know, an’ married him, an’ then there ain’t no hard feelin’ now ’twixt the North an’ the South any way; they ’re all brothers an’ sisters now, an’ we ’ve long time ago furgot an’ furgive yer fightin’ against the Union. Besides — Shall I tell you about afterward? Well, the boys put up a bet on her a-cryin’, an’ Jim an’ Dick Brady, when it got a little darker, they went back just to see what she was a-doin’. They snuck up to the house

— there was a light in the kitchen — an’ there she was. You bet she was n’t cryin’! There was a grea’ big, towerin’, big-boned Reb, like them Virginians is, you know, a-standin’ up by her, an’ maybe she wasn’t lightin’ in to him! My sakes! she was just a lambastin’ him like a tea-kittle boilin’ over on a hot stove. Sometimes he’d say, ' But Sally ' — an ’ law, she would n ’ even let him speak fer himself. You see, she ’d put him to hide in the cupboard in her room, when she seen the Union soldiers a-comin’, an’ Sally she thought when Jim had a-holt o’ her ankles an’ was a-talkin’ to her so commandin’, an’ takin’ the saddle, Sally thought this man

— Bob Tracy his name was — ought ’a’ had ’a’ come out an’ stood by her. Them Southern girls expects so much o’ men! My sakes! Why, he’d ’a’ bin took so quick it ud ’a’ made his head swim. Besides, didn’t she put him in the cupboard herself, when she seen the Union men a-comin’ ? an’ he says now,

' Sally, ’ he says, big an’ patient, ' when you put me there, ’ he says, ' you kissed me an’ says to me, you says, " Oh, Bob, honey, don’t come out fer nothin’, not fer nothin’, ner let um take you pris’ner; ’t ud break my heart ef they was to get you.” I was thinkin’ o’ that, Sally, ’ he says. An’ Sally fired up, an’ she says, ' When I said that I did n’t reckon no low-down despectable damned sneakin’ coward was goin’ to take a-holt o’ me! ’ When Sally says this, Jim says he snickered out there in the yard without meanin’ to, but Lordy! Sally would n’t ’a’ heard a cannon, I guess, then; an’ Bob Tracy he says to her, he says, ' Sally, it may seem queer to you, ’ he says, ‘ but if you think I was a coward —well then I was a coward, ’ he says, ‘ because of love fer you, ’ he says, ' an’ I ’dhave you to know it took courage to be a coward, too, ’ he says, ' an’ if I hadn’t ’a’ loved you so an’ thought o’ you breakin’ your heart if I was took pris’ner, if I hadn’t ’a’ give you my word, I’d ’a’ done like I felt like doin’, an’ I ’d ’a’ come out no matter if I had tol’ you I would n’t, and I ’d ’a’ smashed that feller’s head right wide open, ’ he says, ' when I saw him take a-holt of you.’

“That was the end. Lawsakes! Sally she got quiet then, an’ she says, ' You seen him take a-holt o’ me, then! ’ An’ the big feller he says, ' Yes, Sally,’ he says, ' I seen ’im through the keyhole, and I dunno how I stayed there in the cupboard! ’ he says; ' if it hadn’t ’a’ bin you ’d tol’ me to, an’ I loved you so, the Lord hisself could n’ ’a’ kep’ me there. I dunno how I stayed, ’ he says ; an’ Sally she says quiet, ' I dunno neither how you stayed. I reckon, ’ she says, ' you ’d better go off an’ study over it, as long as you’ve a min’ to, an’ you needn’t come back,’ she says, ' when you’ve found it out, neither.’ He went over to her an’ tried to take a-holt of her ’cause he was a big feller and he was white an’ he wanted to make up, an’ he says to her, ' Sally, ’ he says, ' you ain’t meanin’ that, ’cause you love me, you’ve told me so. I’ve bin brought up an’ raised with you, Sally,’ he says, ' an’ I ain’t ever loved nobody else, ner ever will. ’ Sally pushed him away. ' When I loved you, ’ she says,

' I didn’t know I was lovin’ nobody that ud let a damned sneaking lowdown coward take a-holt o’ the girl he loved. No, I did n’t, ’ she says. ' You can go off, ’ she says, ' an’ not come back, ’ she says. He looked at her steady a minute an’ says, ' Sally, do you mean that? ’ and she says quiet, ' Yes, I mean it. You can go.’ Then he got hisself together, an’ looked back at her onct, an’ then he opened the door and went out and shet it, an’ went down the path right clost to Jim and Dick Brady, without ever a-knowin’ it. He was a slimpsy, towerin’, big-boned Reb, but Jim ain’t afeard o’ nobody, an’ he was in fer capturin’ him, but Dick Brady he got a-holt o’ Jim’s gun-arm, an’ he says, ' Let him go, ’ he says, ' an’ watch the girl! ’T ain’t done yet! ’ So the big Reb went on out the gate, never knowin’, an’ Jim an’ Dick they watched Sally. She stood right still fer a right smart time a-lookin’ at the door, an’ then she went to the table an’ put her head down an’ just began a-sobbin’ an’ a-sobbin’,— an’ a-sobbin’ fit to kill. Jim says to Dick, ' What did I tell you! Ain’t won my bet? There ain’t no doubt,’ he says, ' about her cryin’, I guess, is there ? ’ he says; but Dick Brady wouldn’t allow it was so, an’ wouldn’t allow Jim had won his bet.

' She ain’t a-cryin’ fer the saddle, ’ Dick says, ' ner fer you,’ he says. ' She’s cryin’ fer that big-boned, slimpsy Reb, ’cause she loves him, ’ Dick says. ' She’s cryin’ fer that, an’ ’cause she ’s too proud to go an’ call him back, an’ she knows it, ’ he says. An’ he never would pay Jim his bet, neither. I guess that was kind o’ the beginnin’ o’ the split up atwixt um. They ain’t bin right good frien’s sence.

“ Jim never did see Sally after that till after the war was over, an’ the niggers all free, an’ he ’d got well o’ the fever that well-nigh killed him. It was up here in Ohio; she ’d gone up there after the war to teach school. The South was too poor to raise a disturbance, much less a livin’, an’ Sally’s folks was dead and buried. Well, Jim met Sally one night up here in Ohio at a choir meetin’. She sang, Sally did, and Jim he’s got a lovely big bellerin’ bass voice. The minister heard him that first night Jim ever come there an’ went to that church, an’ asked him would n’t he stay and join the choir, an’ come nex’ Friday to choir practice. Well, that nex’ Friday did n’t they come right spang up face to face, Jim an’ her.”

Here she turned to the soured little man, but decided otherwise, and continued with an almost childlike delight in the situation. “Well, Sally says, says she, bristlin’ an’ gettin’ mad an’ hot an’ white, ‘ Ain’t you the man as carried off my side-saddle ? ’ ”

The woman chuckled a little.

“’Well I ’ll be damned if I ain’t,’ Jim says, says he, lookin’ her kind o’ square in the eye, an’ kind o’ twinklin’ . Jim he thought then she was the prettiest thing that he most ever saw, an’ he looked at her kind o’ quizzy an’ cool. ‘ An’ ef you ain’t a-mindin’ out,’ he says, ' I ’ll come an’ carry you off too. You mind what I say. I ’m brave, ’ Jim says, ‘ if yer big bony Reb was n’t. ’

“ Jim says she got just the color o’ the big red piony we ’ve got in our back yard in Marietta. It’s one of Sally’s plants. She allus was a good hand at flowers; I ain’t much hand at um, but I allus took care o’ that one partickler. It’s just the color o’ the shades we’ve got in the sittin’-room, an’ it looks so pretty having the flowers on the table. I allus put the pionies under Sally’s crayon. It’s a lovely crayon I had done of her by one o’ these men that come around. He said he ’d do it fer nothin’. My sakes, ain’t they cheats, though! ” — this in a whisper — “he charged me six dollars fer the frame. I ain’t never let Jim know.”

There was a pause in which she seemed to be regretting the six dollars. Then in answer to my question she went on: —

“Oh, well, it come about easy enough in time; most things do. Jim he jus’ kep’ cool an’ jus’ kep’ on steady makin’ up his mind to get her. Jim allus gets what he sets out to get. There is them kind o’ folks you know. I tell him — kind o’ teasin’ him — I don’t believe he loved Sally at all at first. Course she was awful pretty, but I tell Jim he just set in to get her like he did the saddle, ’ cause he knew she was dead set against it. There ’s a heap of matches made that way. Jim wanted maybe at first to show her he could manage her, like he showed her he could carry off the saddle. What use had Jim got fer a side-saddle with little red tassels on it, no way! I wish you could hear Jim tell it, but he’s bin marchin’. ’T was jus’ little by little, he jus’ set steady, Jim did, an’ he kind o’ fixed her steady with his eyes each choir practice, now an’ again a-walkin’ home with her, till Jim said he noticed she did n’t grow red all in a flash, you know, like she was angry, but kind o’ colored up slow when he spoke to her. Once when he spoke kind o’ sharp about her singin’ off the key she got dead white, an’ he noticed her hand shake holdin’ the music. Jim ’s got a funny way with him (don’t I remember how I collapsed right quick when he was a-courtin’ me); he turned to her an’ he says kind o’ gentle an’ sweet, ‘ The sweet birds when they get tamed sings sweeter,’ says he, kind o’ to make up. That night she tried to stay away from him an’ kind o’ slipped out ahead o’ the rest, but Jim he follered her like he did when she slipped upstairs, you know, an’ on the way home he got his arm around her, an’ tol’ her she was goin’ to marry him; he tol’ her she loved him an’ that she couldn’t help it no mor’n she helped the saddle.”

“And they lived in the North? ”

“Right up here in Marietta, that ’s where we live. I kind o’ think maybe she ought n’t have been in the North; it was colder than she was used to. She died of a kind o’ consumption like. Then, besides, I guess she got sort o’ takin’ notions. Them Southern girls do take notions, you know. They ’re terrible proud, an’ Sally had mor’n her share o’ sperit. They ain’t used to servin’ nobody. They expect the men to keep fussin’ round an’ crawlin’ an’ doin’ what they say, like it was gospel law. But my sakes! Jim ain’t that kind. If he comes in an’ finds his supper late he thinks he ’s got the right to scold, and so he has o’ course, an’ he does it. Ef there ’s one thing on earth Jim does know, it’s how to manage people like he likes. He ’s a born soldier, Jim is.” She lowered her voice. “I never did ask Jim; he jus’ tells me little things onct in a while, but I reckon Sally was the kind as like to be loved every minute, you know, an’ if they ain’t they go a-declinin’ an’ fadin’ an’ weepin’. It’s awful foolish to go declinin’ an’ fadin’, partickler with a man like Jim. Then Jim he kind o’ took an’ taught her that he did n’t have time to fool round her always; he made her understand little by little, I guess, that now they was married they was n’t to waste time spoonin’, when there was dishes to wash, an’ him elected one o’ the council too, an’ busy.

“ Fer a while I guess she gave him a good deal o’ worry with her ways an’ expectin’s o’ bein’ served an’ fooled an’ played with. Then after a while I guess she begun to understand. She learned, I guess, that you could n’t keep up love an’ foolin’ an’ sweet things like that allus. An’ o’ course you can’t. You had n’t ought to marry a man if you ain’t goin’ to mind him an’ take care of him, an’ obey him like it says. Some women ain’t the least idy wot the marriage service means. It’s mostly mendin’ shirts an’ stockin’s, an’ gettin’ dinners on time, an’ havin’ children,an’ givin’ up your own notions. Women ain’t all alike, you know. It’s a pity. Now I ’m the kind that can be sort o’ reasonin’ about everything, an’ I don’t fret myself. My sister always says,

‘ Well, Carrie, ’ she says, ' you ’ve got a kind o’ easy way o’ takin’ things, like a wagon that ’s got lots o’ axle grease, ’ she says. But Sally — well, Sally got kind o’ sick, you know. I reckon it was a good bit of it just imaginin’; they do say now, these here modern doctors, that most of our ailin’s is just imaginin’s. Well, she got so she said she did n’ have the strenth even to go down the street; she just stayed there in the garden. She just loved them flowers, partickler that — you know — that piony. She ’d brought it from her front yard in Virginia when she first come North; she ’d most kilt it, I guess, carry in’ it around. Well, you see, when she got the notion about not goin’ nowhurs, I guess it kind o’ riled Jim. Men don’t marry a girl, you know, that ’s tired all the time, an’ then it, maybe, just imaginin’ too. Jim he says to me the other day when I thought I ’d got the lumbago in my back, an’ lef’ my dishes stand, Jim says, says he, ' See here, Carrie, don’t you go gettin’ imaginin’s an’ superstitions an’ things like the Southern girls gets,’ says he; ' I’ve had enough in my time, ’ says he. ' You ’re too old to begin that kind o’ foolin’, ’ Jim says. Jim has had a sight o’ trouble in his time. I guess Sally was awful superstitious. I don’t like to start nowhurs on Friday, ner break a lookin’-glass, but I ain’t a bit superstitious; hut Sally was, an’ kind of imaginin’ ; they get it from them darkies, you know. An’ ’t was n’t long ’fore it seemed like she thought she was n’ goin’ to get well. She just got so she went into the garden attendin’ to the flowers an’ nowhurs else. An’ one day she was pickin’ dead leaves off the piony, an’ all of a sudden she leaned down and kissed one o’ the flowers like it might ’a’ bin a baby: ' I’m goin’ away, ’ she says, ' an’ it ’ll be like goin’ back to where we was raised together! ’ Jim he was right nigh her, and she did n’t know it, and she kissed the flowers again. An’ Jim he says to her, says he — I don’t know whether Jim was maybe kind o’ scared, or only just mad — says he, ‘ Sally, ’ he says, ‘ you ’re foolin’ just beyond my style. You ’re goin’ to get yourself sick with your foolin’ an’ imaginin’s, you an’ your piony you ’ve bin raised with! Now I want ye to stop it, ye hear! ' —kind o’ commandin’ .

“Jim says it allus kind o’ puzzled him the way she took it. I guess he thought he ’d got her sperit beat a long while before ; but lawzy ! did n’t she look at him a minute just like she had on the bed with the cretonne ruffles — terrible white an’ sperited. ’T ain’t a bit o’ use to be sperited with Jim, — she ought to ’a’ knowed it by this, —an’ I reckon she did, ’cause she lost sperit all of a sudden, an’ she says to him, ‘ Do you want the potatoes fried to-night fer your supper, er baked ? ’ — just as meek. She kind o’ lost her sperit steady after that. Jim’s sister ’Mandy had to come over an’ help Sally with the work. An’ one day, ’Mandy says, Sally was at the gate, an’ somebody come by on horseback — an’ my meezy! who you guess it was, but that big slimpsy Reb as Sally fired up at when she was a girl! He ’d come from her home in Virginia to a big convention o’ farmers helt here in Ohio, an’ he didn’t have no idy she was there. Just come acrost her, like you do sometimes. An’ he just stopped his horse there by the gate an’ talked with her a long while. I reckon even if she was mad with him it was kind o’ nice to see somebody from where she used to live. When he went away she come back to the kitchen where ’Mandy was, and set down, and ’Mandy says she looked so peaked, an’ just set there not sayin’ a word. Bimeby the tears begun rollin’ down her cheeks, an’ she says, ‘ ’Mandy, ’she says, ‘ I wonder ef it ’s wicked to be glad I ain’t goin’ to get well, an’ to wisht the baby was goin’ away with me too? I’d hate,’ she says, ‘ to have the baby stay, an’ grow up, an’ learn,’ she says.

“’Mandy liked Sally right well, but she fired up, an’ says,‘ Sally, you ought to be ashamed o’ yourself,’ ’Mandy says, ‘ you with all your blessin’s and plenty o’ good food to put in your mouth. It’s shameful,’ she says, ‘ fer you to take on so.’

“From that day, ’Mandy says, Sally just kind o’ drooped, an’ onct or twict when she was a-sleepin’ she’d git talkin ’ soft about goin’ back to where they was raised together — her and the piony. ’T was awful fer Jim. ’Mandy had to stay right on then an’ do all the work. After a little, when the baby come, it come too soon; an’ Sally died, an’ the baby died. Jim ’s had a awful sight o’ trouble. Them Southern girls ain’t allus right strong ner sensible, you know. Jim hadn’t ought ha’ married one of ’em. I allus did tease him an’ say ef it hadn’t bin fer that there saddle — you see Sally was so sperited at the start — my sakes ! She was awful pretty, though. That crayon ’s just lovely ! I wisht you could see it. An’ that piony — now if you ever was to come to Marietta I ’d give you a slip off of it. There ain’t to my mind nothin’ prettier than a right red piony. Jim he don’t hanker after it, but then he ain’t no hand at flowers, no way! Land sakes! you can’t expect a man to think o’ them things, er care.”

At this juncture the car stopped. The sour-faced little man, without a word of warning, got out, thus throwing his wife into a flutter of very pardonable astonishment.

“ Law sakes! ” she said, gathering up a little leather hand-bag and making precipitately for the side of the car, “ is this where you get out ? ” Her husband glanced over his shoulder only long enough to make sure that she was following him, and then went on several feet in advance of her. Once she turned to look at me, and nodded energetically

the good-by of which the alarming suddenness of her departure had deprived me. This seemed to make her stumble very badly, however, and set her bonnet even more crooked, — after which, as long as I could see her, she devoted her attention to following the sour-faced, sharp-shouldered little man.

Laura Spencer Portor.