In a corner dimly lighted by a tallow-dip, and surrounded by pans, pots, and cooking utensils, Mrs. Bradley stood washing dishes.  She turned when he entered.

“Why,” she exclaimed, “I—­I thought you’d gone; what are you comin’ in the back way fer?”

“I’ve got something to say to—­to her,” he said, in a low tone.  “I thought I’d ask you to stay out here for a minute—­I won’t be long.”

She said nothing for a moment, but looked at him strangely, as she slowly dried her hands on a dish-towel.  Then she burst out impulsively: 

“John Westerfelt, ef Luke wusn’t so particular ’bout my conduct with men, I’d kiss you smack dab in the mouth an’ hug you; no wonder women make fools of the’rse’ves about you.  Ef anybody ever dares agin to say anything agin yore character to me, I’ll—­”

She choked up, turned to the corner, and dived into her dishpan, and he saw only her back.  He went into the next room.  Mrs. Dawson’s dull glance was fixed on the coals under the logs.  She started when she looked up and saw him behind her, and shrank from him in a pitiful blending of fright and questioning astonishment as he drew a chair near to hers and sat down.

“What do you want, man?” she asked, looking towards the kitchen door, as if she hoped Mrs. Bradley would appear.

“I want to talk to you, Mrs. Dawson,” he said.  “I don’t want you to hate me any longer.  I am awfully sorry for you; I did you a big injury, but I didn’t do it on purpose.  I did not dream it would end like it did.  I have suffered over it night and day.  It will stick to me the rest of my life.”

The old woman was rapidly regaining her self-possession and with it her hatred of him; her eyes flashed in the firelight.  The sad expression he had surprised on her face was gone.

“She’s in ’er grave,” she snarled.  “Give ‘er back an’ I’ll git down on my knees to you, as much as I hate you!”

“You know I’m helpless to undo what’s been done,” he said, regretfully.

“Well, take yorese’f out’n my sight then.  You’ve made a’ ol’ woman perfectly miserable; go on an’ marry, an’ be happy, ef you kin.”

“I never expect to be that.  I’ve repented of my conduct a thousand times.  I have suffered as much as God ought to make a man suffer for a wrong deed.”

“Not as much as me, an’ I hain’t guilty o’ no crime nuther.”

“I’ve humbly begged your forgiveness.  I can do no more.”  He rose slowly, despondently.

“Git out’n my sight, you vagabond!” Mrs. Dawson’s voice rose till the last word ended in a shriek.

Footsteps were heard in the kitchen, the door opened, and Mrs. Bradley strode in, her face aflame.  Westerfelt stepped towards her and put his hands on her shoulders.

“Don’t say anything,” he said; “for God’s sake, pity her.”

“I cayn’t stand it,” she blurted out, half crying; “she’s gwine entirely too fur!” She pushed his hands down and stood glaring at Mrs. Dawson.