Amanda took another length, of thread, and this time her hand really
shook.

"I guess so," she answered.

"You guess so? Don't ye know? An' if he's come every Saturday night for
fifteen year, ain't he comin' to-night? I dunno what makes you act as
if you wa'n't sure whether your soul's your own, 'Mandy Green. My
dander al'ays rises when I ask you a civil question an' you put on that
look."

Amanda bent more closely over her sewing. She was a woman of
thirty-five, with a pathetically slender figure, thin blond hair
painstakingly crimped, and anxious blue eyes. Something deprecating lay
in her expression; her days had been uncomplainingly sacrificed to the
comfort of those she loved, and the desire of peace and good-will had
crept into her face and stayed there. Her mother, who looked even
slighter than she, and whose cheeks were puckered by wrinkles, sat by
the window watching the two with a smile of empty content. Old Lady
Green had lost her mind, said the neighbors; but she was sufficiently
like her former self to be a source of unspeakable joy and comfort to
Amanda, who nursed and petted her as if their positions were reversed,
and protected her from the blunt criticism of the literal-tongued
neighborhood with a reverential awe belonging to the old days when the
fifth commandment was written and obeyed.

"Gold-bowed," said Mrs. Green, with a look of unalloyed delight,
pointing to her sister-in-law's spectacles; and Aunt Melissa repeated
indulgently,--