“Well, the Lord knows I’m willing,” consented Mrs. Floyd, as she followed her daughter to the kitchen.

Chapter XVII

Sue Dawson leaned on the front gate at the Bradleys’.

“Hello!  Hello!  Hello! in thar!” she cried, in a shrill, piping voice.  No one replied.  “I’m a good mind to go in anyway,” she thought.  “I reckon they hain’t got no bitin’ dog.”  She raised the iron ring from the post and drew the sagging gate through the grooves worn in the pebbly ground and entered the yard.  The front and back doors were open, and she could see a portion of the back yard through the hall.

No one seemed to be in the house.  A young chicken had hopped up the back steps, crossed the entry, and was stalking about in the hall chirping hollowly, as if bewildered by its surroundings.  Across the rear door a sudden gust of wind blew a wisp of smoke, and then it occurred to Mrs. Dawson that some one might be in the back yard.  She drove the chicken before her as she stalked through the hall.

Martha Bradley was making soap.  With her back to the house, she was stirring a boiling mixture of grease and lye in a large wash-pot.  Under the eaves of the kitchen stood an ash-hopper, from the bottom of which trickled a tiny amber stream.

“Howdy, Marthy?” said Mrs. Dawson, behind Mrs. Bradley’s back.  “It was so still in the house, I ‘lowed you wus all dead an’ buried.”

Mrs. Bradley turned and dropped her paddle.  “Why, ef it hain’t Mis’ Dawson, as I’m alive!  Whar on earth are you bound fer?”

“Jest come over fer a day ur so,” was the reply.  “I thought some o’ stoppin’ at the hotel, but, on second thought, I ‘lowed you an’ Luke mought think strange ef I did, so heer I am.”

“I’ve al’ays got room fer a old neighbor, an’ you’d a-been lonely at the hotel.  I’m glad you come, but—­” Mrs. Bradley took up her paddle and began to stir the contents of the pot.  “I reckon, I ortter tell you, plain, Mis’ Dawson, that John Westerfelt is stayin’ with us.  We’ve got plenty o’ room fer you both, but I thought it mought not be exactly agreeable fer you.”

A spiteful fire kindled in Mrs. Dawson’s eyes.  “It mought upset him a little speck, Marthy, but I hain’t done nothin’ to be ashamed uv myse’f.”

Mrs. Bradley went to the ash-hopper and filled a dipper with lye and poured it into the pot.  Then she wiped her hands on her apron.  “John Westerfelt’s had enough trouble to kill a ordinary man, Mis’ Dawson,” she said, “an’ I’m his friend to the backbone; ef you’ve got any ill-will agin ’im, don’t mention it to me.  Besides, now would be a good time fer you to show Christian forbearance.  He’s been thoughtless, but heer lately he is a changed man, an’ I believe he’s tryin’ his level best to do right in God’s sight.  He’s had a peck o’ trouble in one way or another over heer, but, in addition to that, I’m mistaken ef he don’t suffer in secret day and night.”