At night he responded to a knock which he supposed that of Frank Whitwell with ice-water, and Mrs. Durgin came into his room and sat down in one of his two chairs.  “Mr. Westover,” she said, “if you knew all I had done for that woman and her daughter, and how much she had pretended to think of us all, I don’t believe you’d be so ready to judge me.”

“Judge you!” cried Westover.  “Bless my soul, Mrs. Durgin!  I haven’t said a word that could be tormented into the slightest censure.”

“But you think I done wrong?”

“I have not been at all able to satisfy myself on that point, Mrs. Durgin.  I think it’s always wrong to revenge one’s self.”

“Yes, I suppose it is,” said Mrs. Durgin, humbly; and the tears came into her eyes.  “I got the tray ready with my own hands that was sent to her room; but she wouldn’t touch it.  I presume she didn’t like having a plate prepared for her!  But I did feel sorry for her.  She a’n’t over and above strong, and I’m afraid she’ll be sick; there a’n’t any rest’rant at our depot.”

Westover fancied this a fit mood in Mrs. Durgin for her further instruction, and he said:  “And if you’ll excuse me, Mrs. Durgin, I don’t think what you did was quite the way to keep a hotel.”

More tears flashed into Mrs. Durgin’s eyes, but they were tears of wrath now.  “I would ‘a’ done it,” she said, “if I thought every single one of ’em would ‘a’ left the house the next minute, for there a’n’t one that has the first word to say against me, any other way.  It wa’n’t that I cared whether she thought my son was good enough to eat with her or not; I know what I think, and that’s enough for me.  He wa’n’t invited to the picnic, and he a’n’t one to put himself forward.  If she didn’t want him to stay, all she had to do was to do nothin’.  But to make him up a plate before everybody, and hand it to him to eat with the horses, like a tramp or a dog—­“Mrs. Durgin filled to the throat with her wrath, and the sight of her made Westover keenly unhappy.

“Yes, yes,” he said, “it was a miserable business.”  He could not help adding:  “If Jeff could have kept it to himself—­but perhaps that wasn’t possible.”

“Mr. Westover!” said Mrs. Durgin, sternly.  “Do you think Jeff would come to me, like a great crybaby, and complain of my lady boarders and the way they used him?  It was Mr. Whit’ell that let it out, or I don’t know as I should ever known about it.”

“I’m glad Jeff didn’t tell you,” said Westover, with a revulsion of good feeling toward him.

“He’d ‘a’ died first,” said his mother.  “But Mr. Whit’ell done just right all through, and I sha’n’t soon forget it.  Jeff’s give me a proper goin’ over for what I done; both the boys have.  But I couldn’t help it, and I should do just so again.  All is, I wanted you should know just what you was blamin’ me for—­”

“I don’t know that I blame you.  I only wish you could have helped it—­ managed some other way.”