in a mad moment.

Then over at the Mortimers' place he meets Mrs. Judson Tolliver, a
plausible widow lady who come into the valley every once in a while to
do sewing round at different ranches. She was a good-built, impressive
person, with a persuading manner; one of these competent ones that can
take charge of affairs and conduct them unassisted, and will do so if
not stopped. Uncle Henry Mortimer brought her to the house in his light
wagon one morning, with her sewing machine in the back. And Homer was
there to help her out and help out with the machine and see it was placed
right in the sitting room; and then help out with her satchel and ask in
a gentlemanly manner if everything was all right--and everything was:
Thank you so much, Mr. Gale!

This party was no simpering schoolgirl. She was thirty-five or so and
square-jawed, and did her hair plain, and had a managing voice that
would go good at club meetings. She read library books and was a good
conversationalist. And what did she do the first evening, when Homer was
mending one of his shirts by the kitchen lamp, but wrench it away from
him roguishly and do the job herself, while she entertained him with
conversation. It was bound to be entertaining, for she started in about
what trials children was to their tormented parents and how the world
would be brighter and better if it consisted entirely of adults.

Any one might of thought she'd been hearing gossip about Homer's likes
and dislikes. I know that's what I thought afterward, when he opened his
soul to me. She said what a mercy it was that half a dozen yelling demons
wasn't in this house at that moment to make life an evil thing for all.
And Homer sunned right up and took the talk away from her. While she done
his mending he spoke heatedly of little children in his well-known happy
vein, relating many incidents in his blasted career that had brought him
to these views. The lady listened with deep attention, saying "Ah, yes,
Mr. Gale!" from time to time, and letting on there must be a strong bond
of sympathy between them because he expressed in choice words what she
had so often felt.

Homer must of been kind of swept off his feet at that very moment,
and the rapids just below him. I guess he'd already been made mushy
sentimental by seeing the ideal romantic marriage between Uncle Henry and
his wife--forty years or so together and still able to set down in peace
and quiet without having something squirm ove