Lucindy turned to her, smiling still, but with a hint of quizzical
shrewdness about her mouth.

"I guess I ain't called on to put myself out," she said, simply, yet
not irreverently. "Father had his way in pretty much everything while
he was alive. I always made up my mind if I should outlive him, I'd
have all the things I wanted then, when young folks want the most. And
you know then I couldn't get 'em."

"Well!" said Mrs. Wilson. Her tone spoke volumes of conflicting
commentary.

"You got a saddle?" asked Lucindy, turning to her cousin. "I thought I
remembered you had one laid away, up attic. I suppose you'd just as
soon I'd take it?"

He was neither shocked nor amused. He had been looking at her very
sadly, as one who read in every word the entire tragedy of a repressed
and lonely life.

"Yes, we have, Lucindy," he said, gently, quieting his wife by a motion
of the hand, "but 'tain't what you think. It's a man's saddle. You'd
have to set straddle.

"Oh!" said Lucindy, a faint shade of disappointment clouding her face.
"Well, no matter! I guess they've got one down to the Mardens'. Jane,
should you just as soon come round this afternoon, and look over some
bunnit trimmin's with me? I took two kinds of flowers home from Miss
West's, and I can't for my life tell which to have."