he kitchen,
both doors of which were tightly closed. When I stepped into the hot,
close room, smelling of food and fire, I saw Ev'leen Ann sitting on the
straight kitchen chair, the yellow light of the bracket-lamp bearing
down on her heavy braids and bringing out the exquisitely subtle
modeling of her smooth young face. Her hands were folded in her lap. She
was staring at the blank wall, and the expression of her eyes so
startled and shocked me that I stopped short and would have retreated if
it had not been too late. She had seen me, roused herself, and said
quietly, as though continuing a conversation interrupted the moment
before:

"I had been thinking that there was enough left of the roast to make
hash-balls for dinner"--"hash-balls" is Ev'leen Ann's decent Anglo-Saxon
name for croquettes--"and maybe you'd like a rhubarb pie."

I knew well enough she had been thinking of no such thing, but I could
as easily have slapped a reigning sovereign on the back as broken in on
the regal reserve of Ev'leen Ann in her clean gingham.

"Well, yes, Ev'leen Ann," I answered in her own tone of reasonable
consideration of the matter; "that would be nice, and your pie-crust is
so flaky that even Mr. Horace will have to be pleased."

"Mr. Horace" is our title for the sardonic cousin whose carping ways are
half a joke, and half a menace in our family.

Ev'leen Ann could not manage the smile which should have greeted this
sally. She looked down soberly at the white-pine top of the kitchen
table and said, "I guess there is enough sparrow-grass up in the garden
for a mess, too, if you'd like that."

"That would taste very good," I agreed, my heart aching for her.

"And creamed potatoes," she finished bravely, thrusting my unspoken
pity from her.

"You know I like creamed potatoes better than any other kind," I
concurred.

There was a silence. It seemed inhuman to go and leave the stricken
young thing to fight her trouble alone in the ugly prison, her
work-place, though I thought I could guess why Ev'leen Ann had shut the
doors so tightly. I hung near her, searching my head for something to
say, but she helped me by no casual remark. 'Niram is not the only one
of our people who possesses to the full the supreme gift of silence.
Finally I mentioned the report of a case of measles in the village, and
Ev'leen Ann responded in kind with the news that her Aunt Emma had
bought a potato-planter. Ev'leen Ann is an orphan, brought up b