Penelope was up and working like a beaver. No woman's claims
ever have anything to do with her deserts; perhaps no man's ever have
either; perhaps all who claim most deserve least. At all events, it was
perfectly natural that the widow Broadnax should feel as truly and
deeply aggrieved at her half-sister's ruling her own brother's house, as
if she, herself, had been the most energetic and capable of
housekeepers.

On that morning her dull eyes kept an unwavering, unwinking watch over
the coffee making; as they always did over every encroachment upon her
rights. Her heavy eyelids were only partially lifted, yet not a movement
of Miss Penelope's restless little body, not a gesture of her nervous
little hands was allowed to escape. Now that the coffee was nearly
ready, Miss Penelope had become rather more composed. She still stood
guard over the coffee-pot; she never left it till she carried it to the
table with her own hands, but she was lapsing into a sort of spent
silence. She merely sighed at intervals with the contented weariness
that comes from a sense of duty well done. But her half-sister still
eyed her as a fat, motionless spider eyes a buzzing little fly which is
ceasing to flutter. Miss Penelope had not observed a large pewter cup
resting on the floor near the widow Broadnax's chair. It had been left
there by a careless servant, who had used a portion of the mixture of
red paint and sour buttermilk with which it was filled, to give the wide
hearth its fine daily gloss. Miss Penelope had not observed it because
she was always oblivious to everything else while hanging over the
coffee-pot. The widow Broadnax had seen the cup at once because it was
slightly in the way of her foot; and she was quick enough to notice the
least discomfort. But she had not immediately perceived the longed-for
opportunity which it gave her. That came like an inspiration a few
moments later, when Miss Penelope was off guard for an instant. Her back
was turned only long enough for her to go to the table and see if the
tray was ready for the coffee-pot, but the widow Broadnax found this
plenty of time. With a quickness truly surprising in one of her habitual
slowness, she swooped down and seized the cup of buttermilk and paint.
In a flash she lifted the lid of the coffee-pot, poured the contents of
the cup in the coffee, set the empty cup down in its place, and was back
again, resting among the cushions as if she had never stirred, when poo