t in a mechanical sort of way), convinced her
that she had been used to table-napkins at one time in her life.

Sometimes, after a long pause in the conversation, Mrs Spicer would say
suddenly--

'Oh, I don't think I'll come up next week, Mrs Wilson.'

'Why, Mrs Spicer?'

'Because the visits doesn't do me any good. I git the dismals
afterwards.'

'Why, Mrs Spicer? What on earth do you mean?'

'Oh,-I-don't-know-what-I'm-talkin'-about. You mustn't take any notice
of me.' And she'd put on her hat, kiss the children--and Mary too,
sometimes, as if she mistook her for a child--and go.

Mary thought her a little mad at times. But I seemed to understand.

Once, when Mrs Spicer was sick, Mary went down to her, and down again
next day. As she was coming away the second time, Mrs Spicer said--

'I wish you wouldn't come down any more till I'm on me feet, Mrs Wilson.
The children can do for me.'

'Why, Mrs Spicer?'

'Well, the place is in such a muck, and it hurts me.'

We were the aristocrats of Lahey's Creek. Whenever we drove down on
Sunday afternoon to see Mrs Spicer, and as soon as we got near enough
for them to hear the rattle of the cart, we'd see the children running
to the house as fast as they could split, and hear them screaming--

'Oh, marther! Here comes Mr and Mrs Wilson in their spring-cart.'

And we'd see her bustle round, and two or three fowls fly out the
front door, and she'd lay hold of a broom (made of a bound bunch of
'broom-stuff'--coarse reedy grass or bush from the ridges--with a stick
stuck in it) and flick out the floor, with a flick or two round in front
of the door perhaps. The floor nearly always needed at least one flick
of the broom on account of the fowls. Or she'd catch a youngster and
scrub his face with a wet end of a cloudy towel, or twist the towel
round her finger and dig out his ears--as if she was anxious to have him
hear every word that was going to be said.

No matter what state the house would be in she'd always say, 'I was jist
expectin' yer, Mrs Wilson.' And she was original in that, anyway.

She had an old patched and darned white table-cloth that she used to
spread on the table when we were there, as a matter of course ('The
others is in the wash, so you must excuse this, Mrs Wilson'), but I saw
by the eyes of the children that the cloth was rather a wonderful thing
to them. 'I must really git some more knives an' forks next time I'm in
Cobborah,' she'd say. 'The c