“Walk in an’ sit down, ma’am,” he said hospitably leading the way into the little sitting-room, where the old hound dozed on the rug.  “Molly’s jest gone down to the spring-house, but she’ll be back in a minute.”

“Reuben Merryweather—­” began Sarah, and then she stopped, “you ain’t lookin’ over sprightly,” she said after a pause.

“I’ve got a weak chest, an’ the cold settles on it.”

“Did you ever try mutton suet laid over it on a piece of red flannel?  ’Tis the best cure I know of.”

“Molly makes me a plaster for it at night.”  The feeling that he had engrossed the conversation for his selfish ends led him to remark after a minute, “You have changed but little, Sarah, a brave woman you are.”

“Not so brave, Reuben, but I’m a believer an’ that helps me.  I’d have broken down under the burden often enough if my faith hadn’t supported me.  You’ve had yo’ troubles, too, Reuben, an’ worse ones.”

“It’s true, it’s true,” said the old man, coughing behind his hand, “to see my po’ gal suffer so was worst—­but however bad things seemed to us on top, I’ve al’ays believed thar was a hidden meanin’ in em’ that our eyes couldn’t see.”

“Ah, you were al’ays a soft natured man, Reuben, too soft natured for yo’ own good, I used to think.”

“’Twas that that stood against me with you, Sarah, when we were young.  Do you remember the time you refused to drive back with me from that picnic at Falling Creek because I wouldn’t give Jacob Bumpass a hiding about something?  That was a bitter pill to me, an’ I’ve never forgot it.”

Sarah had flushed a little, and her stern face appeared to have grown ten years younger.  “To think that you ain’t forgot all that old foolishness, Reuben!”

“Well, thar’s been time enough an’ trouble enough, no doubt,” he answered, “but seein’ you lookin’ so like yo’ old self put me in mind of it.”

“Lord, Reuben, I ain’t thought of all that for forty years!”

“No mo’ have I, Sarah except when I see you on Sundays sittin’ across the church from me.  You were a beauty in yo’ day, though some folks use to think that that little fair thing, Mary Hilliard, was better lookin’.  To me ‘twas like settin’ a dairy maid beside a queen.”

“Even my husband thought Mary Hilliard, was prettier,” said Sarah, and her tone showed that this tribute to her youthful vanity had touched her heart.

“Well, I never did.  You were al’ays too good for me an’ I never begrudged you to Abner.  He was a better man.”

For an instant she looked at him steadily, while living honesty struggled in her bosom against loyalty to the dead.

“No, Reuben, Abner was not a better man,” she said presently, as if the words were thrust out of her by a chastening conscience.  “My pride kept me up after I had married him; but he was born shiftless an’ he died shiftless.  He never did a day’s work in his life that I didn’t drive him to.  His children have never known how it was, for I’ve al’ays made ’em think he was a hard worker an’ painstakin’ to keep back his laziness from croppin’ out in ’em, if I could.”