“Yes, an’ she jest set on the carriage-seat an’ squirmed like an eel an’ looked downcast an’ said nothin’.”
“That must ’a’ been at the beginnin’ o’ ’er sickness,” said Mrs. Thompson thoughtfully. She had missed the point of her visitor’s story and kept her eyes on her son, who sat in the chimney-corner, his feet on a pile of logs and kindling pine.
“The Lord wouldn’t give blessed health to a pusson with her mean sperit,” resumed the visitor warmly. “I jest set thar an’ wondered how any mortal woman in a Christian land could calmly ax a stranger about ’er own sister livin’ twenty miles off an’ not go to see ’er. She tried to talk about some’n else but she’d no sooner git started than I’d deliberately switch ’er back to you an’ yore plight an’ I kept that a-goin’ till she riz an’ driv off.”
“I have heard,” said the widow, her glance going cautiously back to her son, who had bent down to add another piece of pine to the fire, “I have heard that Colonel Hansard was always in debt from his extravagance, an’ that his family lived past the’r means. Brother Thomas went to see Melissa once, an’ he said he believed she was a misjudged woman. He ’lowed she was willin’ enough to do right, but that her husband always made ’er feel dependent on him becase his money had lifted ’er up. Brother Thomas said the gals had growed up like the’r daddy, an’ that between ’em all, Melissa never’d had any will o’ her own. I reckon I railly ort to go see ’er.”
“Ef you do they’ll slam the door in yore face,” said Mrs. Ewebanks in the angry determination to stir the widow’s pride.
“I don’t think it’s a matter fer you to decide on, Mrs. Ewebanks.” The widow leaned back out of the fire-light, and sat coldly erect. “I believe in doin’ unto others as I’d have them do unto me, an’ ef I was in Melissa’s fix I’d want to see my only livin’ sister. Facin’ the end folks sometimes change powerful. Circumstances made ’er what she is; ef she hadn’t been tuck by a rich man, she’d ’a’ been like common folks. She used to love me when she was little, an’ I jest don’t want ’em to lay ’er body away without seein’ ’er once more. I—I used to—I reckon I still love ’er some.”
Mrs. Thompson’s voice had sunk almost to a whisper. Mrs. Ewebanks moved uneasily; a sneer had risen on her red face, but it died away. Joe Thompson had suddenly turned upon her from the semi-darkness of his corner. There was no mistaking the ferocious glare of his eyes.