“Night before last on the six-fifteen, and me getting home late from the Epworth meeting—­fire out—­not a stick of kindling-wood in—­only two cakes in the buttery, neither of them a layer—­not a frying-size chicken on the place—­thank goodness he didn’t have the appetite he used to—­though in another way it’s just downright heartbreaking to see a person you care for not be a ready eater—­but I had some of the plum jell he used to like, and the good half of an apple-John which I at once het up—­and I sent Mehitty Lykins down for some chops—­”

“Where is he?”

There had seemed to be a choking in the question.  Clytie regarded her curiously.

“He was lying down up in the study a while ago—­kicking one foot up in the air against the wall, with his head nearly off the sofy onto the floor, just like he used to—­there—­that’s his step—­”

“I can’t see him now!  Here—­let me go into your room till I freshen and rest a bit—­quick—­”

Once more the indecisive knees seemed about to bend either way under their burden.  With an effort of will she drew the amazed Clytie toward the open door of the latter’s bedroom, then closed it quickly, and stood facing her in the dusk of the curtained room.

“Clytie—­I’m weak—­it’s so strange—­actually weak—­I shake so—­Oh, Clytie—­I’ve got to cry!”

There was a mutual opening of arms and a head on Clytie’s shoulder, wet eyes close in a corner that had once been the good woman’s neck—­and stifling sobs that seemed one moment to contract her body rigidly from head to foot—­the next to leave it limp and falling.  From the nursing shoulder she was helped to the bed, though she could not yet relax her arms from that desperate grip of Clytie’s neck.  Long she held her so, even after the fit of weeping passed, clasping her with arms in which there was almost a savage intensity—­arms that locked themselves more fiercely at any little stirring of the prisoned one.

At last, when she had lain quiet a long time, the grasp was suddenly loosened and Clytie was privileged to ease her aching neck and cramped shoulders.  Then, even as she looked down, she heard from Nancy the measured soft breathing of sleep.  She drew a curtain to shut out one last ray of light, and went softly from the room.

Two hours later, as Clytemnestra attained ultimate perfection in the arrangement of four glass dishes of preserves and three varieties of cake upon her table—­for she still kept to the sinfully complex fare of the good old simple days—­Nancy came out.  Clytie stood erect to peer anxiously over the lamp at her.

“I’m all right—­you were a dear to let me sleep.  See how fresh I am.”

“You do look pearter, child—­but you look different from when you came.  My suz! you looked so excited and kind of young when I opened that door, it give me a start for a minute—­I thought I’d woke out of a dream and you was a Miss in short skirts again.  But now—­let me see you closer.”  She came around the table, then continued:  “Well, you look fresh and sweet and some rested, and you look old and reasonable again—­I mean as old as you had ought to look.  I never did know you to act that way before, child.  My neck ain’t got the crick out of it yet.”