I think perhaps the evenings must have been the loneliest for her.  The summer evenings in our little town are filled with intimate, human, neighbourly sounds.  After the heat of the day it is infinitely pleasant to relax in the cool comfort of the front porch, with the life of the town eddying about us.  We sew and read out there until it grows dusk.  We call across-lots to our next-door neighbour.  The men water the lawns and the flower boxes and get together in little quiet groups to discuss the new street paving.  I have even known Mrs. Hines to bring her cherries out there when she had canning to do, and pit them there on the front porch partially shielded by her porch vine, but not so effectually that she was deprived of the sights and sounds about her.  The kettle in her lap and the dishpan full of great ripe cherries on the porch floor by her chair, she would pit and chat and peer out through the vines, the red juice staining her plump bare arms.

I have wondered since what Blanche Devine thought of us those lonesome evenings—­those evenings filled with little friendly sights and sounds.  It is lonely, uphill business at best—­this being good.  It must have been difficult for her, who had dwelt behind closed shutters so long, to seat herself on the new front porch for all the world to stare at; but she did sit there—­resolutely—­watching us in silence.

She seized hungrily upon the stray crumbs of conversation that fell to her.  The milkman and the iceman and the butcher boy used to hold daily conversation with her.  They—­sociable gentlemen—­would stand on her doorstep, one grimy hand resting against the white of her doorpost, exchanging the time of day with Blanche in the doorway—­a tea towel in one hand, perhaps, and a plate in the other.  Her little house was a miracle of cleanliness.  It was no uncommon sight to see her down on her knees on the kitchen floor, wielding her brush and rag like the rest of us.  In canning and preserving time there floated out from her kitchen the pungent scent of pickled crab apples; the mouth-watering, nostril-pricking smell that meant sweet pickles; or the cloying, tantalising, divinely sticky odour that meant raspberry jam.  Snooky, from her side of the fence, often used to peer through the pickets, gazing in the direction of the enticing smells next door.  Early one September morning there floated out from Blanche Devine’s kitchen that clean, fragrant, sweet scent of fresh-baked cookies—­cookies with butter in them, and spice, and with nuts on top.  Just by the smell of them your mind’s eye pictured them coming from the oven—­crisp brown circlets, crumbly, toothsome, delectable.  Snooky, in her scarlet sweater and cap, sniffed them from afar and straightway deserted her sandpile to take her stand at the fence.  She peered through the restraining bars, standing on tiptoe.  Blanche Devine, glancing up from her board and rolling-pin, saw the eager golden head.  And Snooky, with guile in her heart, raised one fat, dimpled