stop it."

"What on airth you talkin' about?"

"Why, Emmy woman, don't ye know the United States government ain't no
such fool as to go on payin' a woman for havin' a dead husband when
she catches holt of a livin' one? Don't you know that?"

"Josh Butterfield!--you don't mean--"

"Why, that's true. Didn't you know that? Well, well! Why, a smart
widow woman could get consid'able of a income by sendin' husbands to
wars, if it wa'n't for that. Well, well; to think you didn't know
that! Wonder if Lizzie does?"

"She don't!" Mrs. Butterfield said, excitedly; "course she don't.
She's calculatin' on havin' that pension same as ever. Why, she
_can't_ marry Nat. Goodness! I guess I'll just step down and tell
her. Lucky you told me to-night; to-morrow it would 'a' been too late!"


IV


Lizzie Graham was sitting in the dark on her door-step; a cat had
curled up comfortably in her lap; her elm was faintly murmurous with a
constant soft rustling and whispering of the lace of leaves around its
great boughs. Now and then a tree-toad spoke, or from the pasture pond
behind the house came the metallic twang of a bullfrog. But nothing
else broke the deep stillness of the summer night. Lizzie's elbow was