creep where roots lie blind in the dark; when life is at the one dull,
flat instant before culmination and movement. I had gone down
post-haste to my well-beloved Tiverton, in response to the news sent me
by a dear countrywoman, that Nancy Boyd, whom I had not seen since my
long absence in Europe, was dying of "galloping consumption." Nancy
wanted to bid me good-by. Hiram Cole met me, lean-jawed, dust-colored,
wrinkled as of old, with the overalls necessitated by his "sleddin'" at
least four inches too short. Not the Pyramids themselves were such
potent evidence that time may stand still, withal, as this lank,
stooping figure, line for line exactly what it had been five years
before. Hiram helped me into the pung, took his place beside me, and
threw a conversational "huddup" to the rakish-looking sorrel colt. We
dashed sluing away down the country road, and then I turned to look at
my old friend. He was steadfastly gazing at the landscape ahead, the
while he passed one wiry hand over his face, to smooth out its
broadening smile. He was glad to see me, but his private code of
decorum forbade the betrayal of any such "shaller" emotion.

"Well, Hiram," I began, "Tiverton looks exactly the same, doesn't it?
And poor Nancy, how is she?"

"Nancy's pretty low," said Hiram, drawing his mitten over the hand that
had been used to iron out his smile, and giving critical attention to
the colt's off hind-leg. "She hil' her own all winter, but now, come
spring, she's breakin' up mighty fast. They don't cal'late she'll live
more'n a day or two."

"Her poor husband! How will he get along without her!"

Hiram turned upon me with vehemence.