bly with his
rheumatism." Mrs. Mosby lapsed into thoughtfulness and Mary Louise
murmured her sympathy.

A moment of this and Mrs. Mosby recovered herself and held out her
hand again.

"You must come and see me now--real often. I'm so much alone. Such a
lot you must have to tell me and I want to hear it all." She took her
prim, precise departure conscious of her graciousness.

On her way, in the opposite direction, Mary Louise suffered another
qualm, a feeling of insincerity. She was gathering credit that really
was undeserved. Her return would doubtless be labelled in Bloomfield
as a bit of pretty sacrifice. And the place was a very refuge. The sun
dipped as she walked along, so that the tip of it reddened the ridge
poles of the houses and the sky was as blue as indigo. She passed an
open lot where weeds abounded and in the weeds the blackbirds were
chattering noisily. At her approach they flew up in a black swarm to
refuge in an old apple tree in the rear of the lot. On the ground near
the sidewalk was an old wagon bed that had been there for years--she
tried to remember how long. There were decided compensations in coming
home.

She found Zeke sitting on his doorstep, his chin on his hands, busily
strengthening his restful philosophy. She quickly bargained with him
and he hurried away to get out his old carry-all. When he found that
she followed him, and found in addition that she intended accompanying
him, his pleasure was quite evident.

"Wait, Mis' Ma'y, ontil I gits a rag and wipes off de seat," he said
at the door of the shed.

She could not help feeling a bit self-conscious as she sat by Zeke's
side and went rattling along the street, down into the square, into
the very centre of Bloomfield life. But she held her head jauntily
aloft and wondered if she were being noticed and being talked about.
They met no one. They took the open road and the afternoon settled
down upon her like a blessing. On either side of the road great
patches of red and yellow streaked the hills, and the fields were
taking on a soft golden brown, and soft purple mists gathered in the
valleys blending in subtle fashion with the foreground. In spite of
the riot of colour, the land was wrapped in a calm dignity. It wore
its glories well. In the bits of woodland, through which the road
occasionally digressed, there was a strong odour of beech and buckeye
and there was a fragrant dampness rising.

The thought of Claybrook came into her