Mrs. Lathrop did the listening while she chewed clover. Just beyond
her woodpile red clover grew luxuriantly, and when she started for the
place of meeting it was her invariable custom to stop and pull a
number of blossoms so that she might eat the tender petals while
devoting her attention to the business in hand.

It must be confessed that the business in hand was nearly always Miss
Clegg's business, but since Mrs. Lathrop, in her position of
experienced adviser, was deeply interested in Susan's exposition of
her own affairs, that trifling circumstance appeared of little moment.

One of the main topics of conversation was Mr. Clegg. As Mr. Clegg had
not quitted his bed for over a score of years, it might seem that his
novelty as a subject of discussion would have been long since
exhausted. But not so. His daughter was the most devoted of daughters,
and his name was ever rife on her lips. What he required done for him
and what he required done to him were the main ends of her existence,
and the demands of his comfort, daily or annual, resulted in numerous
phrases of a startling but thoroughly intelligible order. Of such a
sort was her usual Saturday morning greeting to Mrs. Lathrop, "I 'm
sorry to cut you off so quick, but this 's father's day to be beat up
and got into new pillow-slips," or her regular early-June remark,
"Well, I thank Heaven 't father 's had his hair picked over 'n' 't
he's got his new tick for _this_ year!"

Mrs. Lathrop was always interested, always sympathetic, and rarely
ever startled; yet one July evening when Susan said suddenly, "I 've
finished my dress for father's funeral," she did betray a slight
shock.