Somehow, all at once there came into my mind the memory of the woman away back there in Buffalo, who had taken me, a sleepy, lonely, neglected little boy, to her room, put me to bed, and been driven from the fearful place in which she lived, because of it.  I have finally thought of the word to describe what I felt in both these cases—­desperation; desperation, and the feeling of pursuit and flight.  I did not even feel all this as I stood looking at Rowena, sitting on her horse so prettily that summer day at my farm; I only felt puzzled and a little pitiful for her—­all the more, I guess, because of her nice clothes and her side-saddle.

“Well, Mr. Vandemark,” said she, finally, “I don’t hear the perprietor of the estate say anything about lighting and stayin’ a while.’  Help me down, Jake!”

I swung her from the saddle and tied her horse.  I stopped to put a halter on him, unsaddle him, and give him hay.  I wanted time to think; but I do not remember that I had done much if any thinking when I got back to the house, and found that she had taken off her long skirt and was sitting on the little stoop in front of my door.  She wore the old apron, and as I came up to her, she spread it out with her hands to call my attention to it.

“You see, Jake, I’ve come to work.  Show me the morning’s dishes, an’ I’ll wash ’em.  Or maybe you want bread baked?  It wouldn’t be breakin’ the Sabbath to mix up a bakin’ for a poor ol’ bach like you, would it?  I’m huntin’ work.  Show it to me.”

I showed her how clean everything was, taking pride in my housekeeping; and when she seemed not over-pleased with this, I had in all honesty to tell her how much I was indebted to Mrs. Thorndyke for it.

“The preacher’s wife?” she asked sharply.  “An’ that adopted daughter o’ theirn, Buck Gowdy’s sister-in-law, eh?”

I wished I could have admitted this; but I had to explain that Virginia had not been there.  For some reason she seemed in better spirits when she learned this.  When it came time for dinner, which on Sunday was at one o’clock, she insisted on getting the meal; and seemed to be terribly anxious for fear everything might not be good.  It was a delicious meal, and to see her preparing it, and then clearing up the table and washing the dishes gave me quite a thrill.  It was so much like what I had seen in my visions—­and so different.

“Now,” said she, coming and sitting down by me, and laying her hand on mine, “ain’t this more like it?  Don’t that beat doing everything yourself?  If you’d only try havin’ me here a week, nobody could hire you to go back to bachin’ it ag’in.  Think how nice it would be jest to go out an’ do your chores in the morning, an’ when you come in with the milk, find a nice breakfast all ready to set down to.  Wouldn’t that be more like livin’?”

“Yes,” I said, “it—­it would.”

“That come hard,” said she, squeezing my hand, “like makin’ a little boy own up he likes a girl.  I guess I won’t ask you the next thing.”