had a comfortable room, somewheres," continued Joel, with the noble
resignation of conscious martyrdom, "and a little stove so's I could
get my meals, then I'd know just what to expect, and I wouldn't have to
ask no odds of nobody."

Persis had listened to similar propositions before. It was a perennial
threat which in the passing of years had lost its power to terrify.
Yet with the inevitable feminine impulse to smooth the feathers of
ruffled masculinity, she began, "When I drove by Susan Fitzgerald's
yesterday morning--"

Joel set down his coffee cup with an emphasis that splashed the
table-cloth.

"That'll do, Persis. I'll tell you once for all that I won't have that
woman here. I can go hungry if it comes to that, but I won't stand for
your putting that old maid up to set her cap for me."

"Goodness, Joel, Susan hasn't any reason in life to want to
marry--anybody." Persis had come very near an uncomplimentary
frankness, but her native tact had suddenly asserted itself and made
the statement general.

Joel smiled satirically.

"Maybe you know better'n I do about that, and then again, maybe you
don't," he replied darkly. Then with a reversion to his air of injury,
he added: "Here's Hornblower come for you already."

As a matter of fact, the thrifty Mrs. Hornblower had despatched her
husband for Persis at the earliest hour permissible, resolved to prove
the economy of her scheme by adding to the activities of the day at
both ends. Persis, quite aware of her patron's purpose, smiled
comprehendingly and proceeded to clear the table without undue haste or
excitement. Mr. Hornblower had waited full thirty minutes before she
came lightly down the path and with unruffled serenity bade him good
morning.

"Sorry to keep you waiting, but you were half an hour ahead of the time
I said."

Robert Hornblower, who had that repressed and submissive air not
infrequent in husbands whose wives make a boast of their womanly
subjection, mumbled that it didn't matter. As he helped her to her
seat, Persis noticed that he had lost flesh since she had seen him
last, and that some plow-share, sharper than that of time, had deepened
the furrows that criss-crossed his sagging cheeks. "How're the crops
coming on?" she asked, as she settled herself beside him.

"Fine!" Mr. Hornblower spoke with a lack of reserve unusual in his
pessimistic profession. "Potatoes ain't quite up to last year, but the
corn crop's a record bre