differences of opinion, but they commonly suspended open warfare
in her presence. There were the usual last things to be done for
breakfast, offices that belonged to her as her grandmother's
assistant. She took yesterday's soda biscuits out of the steamer
where they were warming and softening; brought an apple pie and a
plate of seed cakes from the pantry; settled the coffee with a
piece of dried fish skin and an egg shell; and transferred some
fried potatoes from the spider to a covered dish.

"Did you remember the meat, grandpa? We're all out," she said, as
she began buttoning a stiff collar around his reluctant neck.

"Remember? Land, yes! I wish't I ever could forgit anything!
The butcher says he's 'bout tired o' travelin' over the country
lookin' for critters to kill, but if he finds anything he'll be
up along in the course of a week. He ain't a real smart butcher,
Cyse Higgins ain't.--Land, Rose, don't button that dickey
clean through my epperdummis! I have to sport starched collars
in this life on account o' you and your gran'mother bein' so
chock full o' style; but I hope to the Lord I shan't have to wear
'em in another world!"

"You won't," his wife responded with the snap of a dish towel, "or if you do,
they'll wilt with the heat."

Rose smiled, but the soft hand with which she tied the neck-cloth
about the old man's withered neck pacified his spirit, and he
smiled knowingly back at her as she took her seat at the
breakfast table spread near the open kitchen door. She was a
dazzling Rose, and, it is to be feared, a wasted one, for there