with when you're young 'an to suffer when you're a weak old woman like
me. Ol' age cayn't stand such things so well. No, I never once
mentioned the woman to yore pa. I knowed it would jest make him resort
to lyin', an' at the bottom he was a good, pious man. He jest couldn't
quit thinkin' o' that yaller-headed woman an' her blue eyes an' shiny
store shoes. I jest pitied 'im like he was a baby. It went on till he
got sick, an' many an' many a day he'd lie thar helpless an' look out
towards the cow-lot, wistful like, an' I knowed he was thinkin' o' that
pictur'. He was lookin' that way when he drawed his last breath. It
may 'a' been jest a notion o' mine, fer some said he was unconscious
all that day, but it looked that away to me. I nussed him through his
sickness as well as I could, an' attended to every wish he had till he
passed away. Now, you know some'n' else, Sally. You know why I never
put up no rock at his grave. The neighbors has had a lots to say about
that one thing--most of 'em sayin' I was too stingy to pay fer it, but
it wasn't that, darlin'. It was jest beca'se I had too much woman
pride. When I promised the Lord to love an' obey, it was not expected
that I'd put up a rock over another woman's man if he was dead. Sally,
you are a sight more fortunate than you think you are."

Sally rose, the steely look was still in her eyes, her face was like
finely polished granite. Mrs. Dawson got up anxiously, and together
they passed through the gate. They could see the red fire of Peter
Slogan's pipe, and the vague form of his wife standing over him.

"Now, darlin'--" began Mrs. Dawson, but Sally checked her.

"Don't talk to me any more, mother," she said, impatiently. "I want to
be quiet and think--oh, my God, have mercy on me!"