settling dark; "he'd thank you for a panful of supper. Come on, General,
come on in the kitchen. No, Mrs. Caley won't bite you; she'll give us
something to eat."

The room next to the kitchen, that had been Clare's, had been stripped of
its furnishing, and a glistening yellow pine table set in the middle, with
six painted wood chairs. The table was perpetually spread on a fringed red
or blue cloth; the center occupied by a large silver-plated castor, its
various rings filled with differently shaped bottles and shakers. At the
end where Lettice sat heavy white cups and saucers were piled; at Gordon's
place a knife and fork were propped up on their guards. On either side
were the plates of Simeon and Mrs. Caley. Each place boasted a knife and
formidable steel fork--the spoons were assembled in a glass
receptacle--and a napkin thrust into a ring of plaited hair plainly marked
with the sign of the respective owner.

Mrs. Caley silently put before Gordon a pinkish loin of pork, boiled
potatoes and a bowl of purple, swimming huckleberries; this she fortified
by a vessel of gravy and section of pie. There was tea. "Where's Lettice?"
Gordon demanded. Apparently Mrs. Caley had not heard him. "Lettice," he
raised his voice; "here's supper."

"I don't want anything to eat, thank you, Gordon," she returned from
another room.

"You ought to eat," he called back, attacking the pork. Then he muttered,
"--full of ideas and airs. Soft."

III

Beyond the dining room was their bedroom, and beyond that a chamber which,
for years in a state of deserted, semi-ruin, Gordon had had newly floored
and rendered weather-proof, and now used as a place of assemblage. He
found Lettice there when he had finished supper.

She was sitting beside a small table which held a lighted lamp with a
shade of minute, woven pieces of various silks. Behind her was a cottage
organ, a mass of fretted woodwork; a wall pierced by a window was
ornamented by a framed photograph of a woman dead and in her coffin. The
photograph had faded to a silvery monotony, but the details of the rigid,
unnatural countenance, the fixed staring eyes, were still clear. Redly
varnished chairs with green plush cushions and elaborate, thread
antimacassars, a second table ranged against the wall, bearing a stout
volume entitled "A Cloud of Witnesses," and a cheap phonograph, completed
the furnishing.

It was warm without, but Lettice had shut the window, the shawl was stil