"You don't? Well, I'll tell ye. I want some two-inch boards, to nail up
a partition in the middle o' this room, same as Josh Marden done to
spite his wife. I don't want more'n my own, but I want it mine."

Miss Dyer groaned, and drew an uncertain hand across her forehead.

"You wouldn't have no gre't of an outlay for boards," she said,
drearily. "'Twouldn't have to be knee-high to keep me out. I'm no hand
to go where I ain't wanted; an' if I ever was, I guess I'm cured on't
now."

Mrs. Blair dropped her knitting in her lap. For an instant, she sat
there motionless, in a growing rigidity; but light was dawning in her
eyes. Suddenly she came to her feet, and tossed her knitting on the
bed.

"Where's that piece o' chalk you had when you marked out your
tumbler-quilt?" The words rang like a martial order.

Miss Dyer drew it forth from the ancient-looking bag, known as a cavo,
which was ever at her side.

"Here 'tis," she said, in her forlornest quaver. "I hope you won't do
nothin' out o' the way with it. I should hate to git into trouble here.
I ain't that kind."

Mrs. Blair was too excited to hear or heed her. She was briefly,
flashingly, taking in the possibilities of the room, her bright black
eyes darting here and there with fiery insistence. Suddenly she went to
the closet, and, diving to the bottom of a baggy pocket in her "t'other