Sometimes he would eat enormously, which irritated Nell; sometimes he would eat nothing except bread and molasses, which irritated Nell even more.  “A good molasses jug,” he would say; “got it for a dime.  Once I set a price I’m a stone wall; never give in.”  This was his one boast, his stock phrase.  After using it he would look up at his wife for a word of approval; and as the word of approval was never forthcoming, he would repeat:  “Nell, I’m a stone wall; never give in.”

After supper he would ask what she had been doing all day.  A weary, almost voiceless, man, he had told her nothing.  But Great Taylor while washing the dishes would rattle off everything that had happened since that morning.  She seldom omitted any important detail, for she knew by experience that Grit would sit there, silent, wrists crossed and palms turned up, waiting.  He had always seemed to know when she had left anything out, and she always ended by telling him.  Then he would take a long breath, eyes closed, and, after fumbling back of the molasses jug, would soon be seated again beneath the streaming gas-jet spelling to himself the words of his coverless book.

So vivid was the picture, the personality and routine of Grit, that Great Taylor felt the awe with which he, at times, had inspired her.  She had been afraid of Grit—­afraid to do anything she could not tell him about; afraid not to tell him about everything she had done.  But now she determined:  “I’ll do what I please.”  And the first thing it pleased Great Taylor to do was to get rid of the odious molasses jug.

She plucked it from the shelf, holding the sticky handle between two fingers, and dropped it into the peach crate that served as a waste-basket.  The noise when the jug struck the bottom of the crate startled her.  Great Taylor stood there—­listening.  Someone was slowly ascending the circular staircase.  The woman could hear a footfall on the iron steps.

“Grit’s gone,” she reassured herself.  “I’ll do what I please.”

She reached for the grimy book, “Grit’s Bible,” the most offensive article in the room, and with sudden determination tore the book in two, and was about to throw the defaced volume into the basket along with the earthen jug when fear arrested the motion of her hands.  Her lips parted.  She was afraid to turn her head.  The door back of her had opened.

Great Taylor was only ordinarily superstitious.  She had buried Grit that morning.  It was still broad daylight—­early afternoon.  And yet when she turned, clutching the torn book, she fully expected to see a pair of baggy breeches preceding a collarless, long-necked man with a broken nose, and smudges in the hollows of his cheeks.

Instead, she wheeled to see a pair of fastidiously pressed blue serge trousers, an immaculate white collar, a straight nose and ruddy complexion.  In fact, the man seemed the exact opposite of Grit.  Nell glanced at the open door, back at the man, exhaled tremulously with relief, and breathed:  “Why didn’t you knock?”