“That must have been an awful time to you,” said Lorania, looking with more interest than she had ever felt on the meek little woman; and she noticed the tremble in the decorously clasped hands.

“Yes, ma’am,” was all she said.

“I’ve often looked over at you on the piazza, and thought how cosey you looked.  Mr. Winslow always seems to be at home evenings.”

“Yes, ma’am.  We sit a great deal on the piazza.  Cyril’s a good boy; he wa’n’t nine when his father died; and he’s been like a man helping me.  There never was a boy had such willing little feet.  And he’d set right there on the steps and pat my slipper and say what he’d git me when he got to earning money; and he’s got me every last thing, foolish and all, that he said.  There’s that black satin gown, a sin and a shame for a plain body like me, but he would git it.  Cyril’s got a beautiful disposition too, jest like his pa’s, and he’s a handy man about the house, and prompt at his meals.  I wonder sometimes if Cyril was to git married if his wife would mind his running over now and then and setting with me awhile.”

She was speaking more rapidly, and her eyes strayed wistfully over to the Hopkins piazza, where Sibyl was sitting with the young soldier.  Lorania looked at her pityingly.

“Why, surely,” said she.

“Mothers have kinder selfish feelings,” said Mrs. Winslow, moistening her lips and drawing a quick breath, still watching the girl on the piazza.  “It’s so sweet and peaceful for them, they forget their sons may want something more.  But it’s kinder hard giving all your little comforts up at once when you’ve had him right with you so long, and could cook just what he liked, and go right into his room nights if he coughed.  It’s all right, all right, but it’s kinder hard.  And beautiful young ladies that have had everything all their lives might—­might not understand that a homespun old mother isn’t wanting to force herself on them at all when they have company, and they have no call to fear it.”

There was no doubt, however obscure the words seemed, that Mrs. Winslow had a clear purpose in her mind, nor that she was tremendously in earnest.  Little blotches of red dabbled her cheeks, her breath came more quickly, and she swallowed between her words.  Lorania could see the quiver in the muscles of her throat.  She clasped her hands tight lest they should shake.  “He’s in love with Sibyl,” thought Lorania.  “The poor woman!” She felt sorry for her, and she spoke gently and reassuringly: 

“No girl with a good heart can help feeling tenderly towards her husband’s mother.”

Mrs. Winslow nodded.  “You’re real comforting,” said she.  She was silent a moment, and then said, in a different tone:  “You ’ain’t got a large enough track.  Wouldn’t you like to have our pasture too?”

Lorania expressed her gratitude, and invited the Winslows to see the practice.

“My niece will come out to-morrow,” she said, graciously.