"Marthy," said the hostess, "you ain't goin' over there to that
lonesome house, this cold snap?"

"Ain't I?" asked Mrs. Wadleigh, composedly, as she trimmed the top of
her shoe preparatory to binding it. "Well, you see'f I ain't!"

"In the fust place," went on Mrs. Pendleton, nervously, "the cross-road
ain't broke out, an' you can't git there. I dunno's a horse could
plough through; an' s'posin' they could, Cyrus ain't no more fit to go
out an' carry you over'n a fly."

"Don't you worry," said Mrs. Wadleigh, binding off one top. "While I've
got my own legs, I don't mean to be beholden to nobody. I've had a
proper nice time all winter, fust with Lucy an' then with Ann,--an' I
tell ye 'tain't everybody that's got two darters married so well!--but
for the last fortnight, I've been in a real tew to come home. They've
kep' me till I wouldn't stay no longer, an' now I've got so near as
this, I guess I ain't goin' to stop for nobody!"

Mrs. Pendleton looked despairingly at her husband; and he, absently
wiping his razor on a bit of paper, looked at her.

"Marthy!" she burst forth. "No, Cyrus, don't you say one word! You
can't go! There's somebody there!"

Mrs. Wadleigh, in turn, put down her work.

"Somebody there!" she ejaculated. "Where?"