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“You’ll have to make time,” said Mrs. Bridges, bluntly. “You get down an’ help her out. You don’t have to wait. When I’m ready for her to go to the county, I’ll take her myself.”

Not understanding in the least, but realizing, as he said afterwards, that she “meant business” and wasn’t the kind to be fooled with, the man obeyed with alacrity.

“Now, you lean all your heft on me,” said Mrs. Bridges, kindly. She put her arm around the old woman and led her up the hollyhock path, and through the house into the pleasant kitchen.

“Isaphene, you pull that big chair over here where it’s cool. Now, Mis’ Lane, you set right down an’ rest.”

Mrs. Lane wiped the tears from her face with an old cotton handkerchief. She tried to speak, but the sobs had to be swallowed down too fast. At last she said, in a choked voice—“It’s awful good in you—to let me see the old place—once more. The Lord bless you—for it. But I’m most sorry I stopped—seems now as if I—just couldn’t go on.”

“Well, you ain’t goin’ on,” said Mrs. Bridges, while Isaphene went to the door and stood looking toward the hill with drowned eyes. “This is our little joke—Isaphene’s an’ mine. This’ll be your home as long as it’s our’n. An’ you’re goin’ to have this nice big room right off o’ the kitchen, as soon ’s we can furnish it up. An’ we’re goin’ to get a horse an’ buggy—a low buggy, so’s you can get in an’ out easy like—an’ take you to church an’ all around.”