fifty; her hair was russet red, and blew about her forehead in little
curls; her eyes, brown like a brook in shady places, and kind. It was
a mild face, but not weak. Below them the valley shimmered in the
heat; the grass was hot and brittle underfoot; popples bent and twisted
in a scorching wind, and a soft, dark glitter of movement ran through
the pines on the opposite hillside.

"The Farm ain't got a mite of shade round it," Lizzie said; "just sets
there at the crossroads and bakes."

"You was always great for trees," Mrs. Butterfield said; "your house
is too dark for my taste. If I was you, I'd cut down that biggest
ellum."

"Cut it down! Well, I suppose you'll laugh, but them trees are real
kind o' friends. There! I knowed you'd laugh; but I wouldn't cut down
a tree any more 'an I'd--I don't know what!"

"They do darken."

"Some. But only in summer; and then you want 'em to. And the Poor Farm
ain't got a scrap of shade!--I wonder if he feels it, bein' sent there?"

"I ain't seen, him, but Josh, told me he was terrible broke up over it.
Told me he just set and wrung his hands when Hiram Wells told him he'd
got to go. Josh said it was real pitiful. But what can you do? He's
'bout blind; and he ain't just right, either."

"How ain't he just right?"