"I walked from the corner," said Mrs. Wadleigh, who never felt any
compunction about interrupting her old neighbor. She was unpinning her
shawl composedly, as one sure of a welcome. "How do, Cyrus? Jim Thomas
took me up jest beyond the depot, an' give me a lift on his sled; but I
was all of a shiver, an' at the corner, I told him he better let me
step down an' walk. So I come the rest o' the way afoot an' alone. You
ain't goin' to use the oven, be ye? I'll jest stick my feet in a
minute. No, Cyrus, don't you move! I'll take t'other side. I guess we
sha'n't come to 'blows over it."

She seemed to have brought into the kitchen, with that freshness of
outdoor air which the new-comer bears, like a balsam, in his garments,
a breath of fuller life, and even of jollity. As she sat there in her
good brown dress, with her worked collar, fastened by a large cameo,
her gold beads just showing, and her plump hands folded on a capacious
lap, she looked the picture of jovial content, quite able to take care
of herself, and perhaps apply a sturdy shoulder to the lagging
machinery of the world.

"Didn't you git word I was comin' this week?" she asked. "I sent you a
line."

"No, we 'ain't been so fur's the post-office," answered Mirandy,
absently. She was debating over her most feasible bill of fare, now
that a "pick-up dinner" seemed no longer possible. Moreover, she had
something on her mind, and she could not help thinking how unfortunate
it was that Cyrus shared her secret. Who could tell at what moment he
might broach it? She doubted his discretion. "The roads wa'n't broke
out till day before yisterday."