"Well, there ain't many of 'em would say that. And they was
awful provokin' this noon. That roast of veal was just as
good meat as I could find in market; and I don't know what any
sensible party would want better than that prune pie.

"Well! I hope I won't have to keep a boarding house all my life.
It's a thankless task. An' it ties a body down so.

"Here's my uncle--my poor mother's only brother and about the
only relative I've got in the world--here's Uncle Jeptha down
with the grip, or suthin', and goodness knows if he'll ever get
over it. And I can't leave to go and see him die peaceable."

"Does he live far from here?" asked Hiram, politely, although he
had no particular reason for being interested in Uncle Jeptha.

"He lives on a farm out Scoville way. He's lived there most all
his life. He used to make a right good living off'n that farm,
too; but it's run down some now.

"The last time I was out there, two years ago, he was just
keepin' along and that's all. And now I expect he's dying,
without a chick or child of his own by him," and she burst out
crying again, the tears sprinkling the square of toast into which
she continued to bite.

Of course, it was ridiculous. A middle-aged woman weeping and
eating toast and drinking strong boiled tea is not a romantic
picture. But as Hiram climbed to his room he wished with all his
heart that he could help Mrs. Atterson.