erself, with a buggy full of parcels,
at the entrance to a grassy, deep-rutted lane leading to the harbour
shore, wondering whether it was worth while to call down at the
Anderson house. The Andersons were desperately poor and it was not
likely Mrs. Anderson had anything to give. On the other hand, her
husband, who was an Englishman by birth and who had been working in
Kingsport when the war broke out, had promptly sailed for England to
enlist there, without, it may be said, coming home or sending much hard
cash to represent him. So possibly Mrs. Anderson might feel hurt if she
were overlooked. Rilla decided to call. There were times afterwards
when she wished she hadn't, but in the long run she was very thankful
that she did.

The Anderson house was a small and tumbledown affair, crouching in a
grove of battered spruces near the shore as if rather ashamed of itself
and anxious to hide. Rilla tied her grey nag to the rickety fence and
went to the door. It was open; and the sight she saw bereft her
temporarily of the power of speech or motion.

Through the open door of the small bedroom opposite her, Rilla saw Mrs.
Anderson lying on the untidy bed; and Mrs. Anderson was dead. There was
no doubt of that; neither was there any doubt that the big, frowzy,
red-headed, red-faced, over-fat woman sitting near the door-way,
smoking a pipe quite comfortably, was very much alive. She rocked idly
back and forth amid her surroundings of squalid disorder, and paid no
attention whatever to the piercing wails proceeding from a cradle in
the middle of the room.

Rilla knew the woman by sight and reputation. Her name was Mrs.
Conover; she lived down at the fishing village; she was a great-aunt of
Mrs. Anderson; and she drank as well as smoked.

Rilla's first impulse was to turn and flee. But that would never do.
Perhaps this woman, repulsive as she was, needed help--though she
certainly did not look as if she were worrying over the lack of it.

"Come in," said Mrs. Conover, removing her pipe and staring at Rilla
with her little, rat-like eyes.

"Is--is Mrs. Anderson really dead?" asked Rilla timidly, as she stepped
over the sill.

"Dead as a door nail," responded Mrs. Conover cheerfully. "Kicked the
bucket half an hour ago. I've sent Jen Conover to 'phone for the
undertaker and get some help up from the shore. You're the doctor's
miss, ain't ye? Have a cheer?"

Rilla did not see any chair which was not cluttered with something.