omplained some.

SMITH: But did you--keep a tavern?

GRANDMOTHER: Keep a tavern? I guess we did. Every house is a tavern when
houses are sparse. You think the way to settle a country is to go on
ahead and build hotels? That's all you folks know. Why, I never went to
bed without leaving something on the stove for the new ones that might
be coming. And we never went away from home without seein' there was
a-plenty for them that might stop.

SMITH: They'd come right in and take your food?

GRANDMOTHER: What else could they do? There was a woman I always wanted
to know. She made a kind of bread I never had before--and left a-plenty
for our supper when we got back with the ducks and berries. And she left
the kitchen handier than it had ever been. I often wondered about
her--where she came from, and where she went, (_as she dreams over this
there is laughing and talking at the side of the house_) There come the
boys.

(MR FEJEVARY _comes in, followed by_ SILAS MORTON. _They are men not far
from sixty, wearing their army uniforms, carrying the muskets they used
in the parade_. FEJEVARY _has a lean, distinguished face, his dark eyes
are penetrating and rather wistful. The left sleeve of his old uniform
is empty_. SILAS MORTON _is a strong man who has borne the burden of the
land, and not for himself alone--the pioneer. Seeing the stranger, he
sets his musket against the wall and holds out his hand to him, as_ MR
FEJEVARY _goes up to_ GRANDMOTHER MORTON.)

SILAS: How do, stranger?

FEJEVARY: And how are you today, Mrs Morton?

GRANDMOTHER: I'm not abed--and don't expect to be.

SILAS: (_letting go of the balloons he has bought_) Where's Ira? and
Madeline?

GRANDMOTHER: Mr Fejevary's Delia brought them home with her. They've
gone down to dam the creek, I guess. This young man's been waiting to
see you, Silas.

SMITH: Yes, I wanted to have a little talk with you.

SILAS: Well, why not? (_he is tying the gay balloons to his gun, then as
he talks, hangs his hat in the corner closet_) We've been having a
little talk ourselves. Mother, Nat Rice was there. I've not seen Nat
Rice since the day we had to leave him on the road with his torn
leg--him cursing like a pirate. I wanted to bring him home, but he had
to go back to Chicago. His wife's dead, mother.

GRANDMOTHER: Well, I guess she's not sorry.

SILAS: Why, mother.

GRANDMOTHER: 'Why, mother.' Nat Rice is a mean, stingy, complaining
man--his leg notwithstanding.