back door and knocked with slack knuckles.

Mrs. Reynolds, a white cloth tied about her forehead, opened the door.
She gave out redolently the pungent odor of the commodity Suzanna sought
to borrow.

Mrs. Reynolds was stout and comfortable looking ordinarily. A quaint and
interesting personality, sprung from Welsh parentage, she fitted into
the life of Anchorville only because of a certain natural adaptability.
She seemed to belong to a wilder, more passionate people than those
plain lives which surrounded her.

Suzanna knew her tenderness, her tragic depressions. She loved her deep
voice, her resonant tones, all her quick changes of mood, and her
occasional strange ways of expression, revealing her understanding of
men and women's vagaries.

Mrs. Reynolds adored Suzanna. She had said often there was one thing she
coveted from her neighbor, and that was her neighbor's child.

Mrs. Reynolds had no children and in that deplorable fact lay her
keenest unhappiness.

She greeted Suzanna cordially.

"Come in, Suzanna, come in," she said. "I've been using vinegar and red
pepper all morning," she continued, as she went her way to the pantry
with Suzanna's cup. "I've one of my old headaches."

"Oh, I'm so sorry," said Suzanna, with immediate sympathy. "Have you