before the fire in miss gibbie's sitting-room mrs. mcdougal held up her left foot to the crackling coals and watched the steam curl away from the wet sole of her shoe with beaming satisfaction. her skirt, wet around the hem, was drawn up to her knees, her coat, well sprinkled, was on the back of a chair, and in her lap her hat lay limp and spiritless.
from the once upright tail feathers of her haughtiest rooster which adorned one side of the hat, the breast of a duck adorning the other, tiny globules of water trickled slowly into the brim; and as she held it over the fender the feather yielded to circumstance and drooped dejectedly.
"now, ain't that just like folks!" she said, holding it off and looking at it in high derision. "look at that thing, miss gibbie, peart as the first crocus and proud as cuffy when the weather was good, and at the first touch of dampness or discouragement flop it goes, and no more spirit than a convict in court! it certainly is strange how many things in nature is like human beings. now this here rooster and this here duck"—she smoothed the breast and ran her fingers down the feathers—"just naturally had no use for each other. if fowls could do what you call sniff, they sniffed, and when one took the right-hand side of the yard, the other took the left. and yet here is their remains, side by side, a decoratin' of my hat. it ain't only flowers of the field what flourish and are cut down, it's everything what stands up, specially hopes and desires, and things like that. the only thing in life we can be certain sure of is death, ain't it? but i never did feel any call to be cockin' my eye at death just because i knew it had to come. when it do come i hope there'll be grace given to meet it handsome, and go with it like i'm glad, but i ain't a-goin' to be sittin' on the doorstep lookin' out for it. i'm not hankerin' after heaven yet. there's a long time to stay there. funny how many people is willin' to be separated from their loved ones, and how they put off joinin' of 'em as long as possible. i don't deny i'm fond of life. i just love to live!"
"which you won't do long if you go out in weather like this. i've never seen such a storm in november. are you sure your stockings aren't wet?"
miss gibbie, in her big chair on the opposite side of the fireplace, looked at mrs. mcdougal half irritably, half perplexedly. to walk from milltown to pelham place in a heavy snow with no overshoes and no umbrella was just like her. she shouldn't have come, and yet miss gibbie was not sorry she had come. there were times when mrs. mcdougal's chatter was unendurable, but others when her philosophy of life had a common-sense value that systems of belief and articles of faith failed to supply. to-day was one of the latter times. she was rather glad to see her. leaning forward, she repeated the question: "are you sure your stockings are not wet?"
"sure as i'm a sinner." mrs. mcdougal held up first one shoe and then the other. "just the soles were wet, and their sizzlin' don't mean anything. they're an inch thick, them soles are. them's mcdougal's shoes." she held her feet out proudly. "i always did say, miss gibbie, if you couldn't have what you wanted in life, for the love of the lord don't whine about it, but work it off and get a smile on! i'd a heap rather have a telephone in my house and just step up to it and call for one of them takin cabbys, like we saw at atlantic city, and come a-scootin' and a-honkin' up to your door and step out superior and send up a card with mrs. joel b. mcdougal on it than to put on two pairs of mcdougal's socks first, and them pull away at his shoes and wrap my legs in newspapers to keep my skirts from slushin' of 'em. i'd a heap rather done that. but a lot of life ain't what we'd rather. it's what is. and my grandmother always told me there warn't nothin' in life what showed the stock you come from as the way you took what come to you. i never did have no use for a whimperer. of course, i'm plain. born duke and married mcdougal, but whenever i get in a fog and can't see clear, and so tired out i can't eat, and plum run down, i say to myself, 'your folks ain't ever flunked yet, and you keep your head where the lord put it.' he put it up. folks see me laugh a lot. i do. i couldn't learn to play on the painer, though i'm clean crazy about music. i couldn't learn none of the things i yearned for inside, so i said to myself, 'you learn to laugh, laugh hearty.' and somehow it's helped a lot, laughin' has. there's many a time i done it to keep tears back. ain't nobody but has tears to shed some time or other. but 'tain't no use in keepin' a tank of 'em to be tapped at every slip up. when i get so i can't keep mine back any longer i goes to the woodhouse and locks the door and has it out. but that's just when i'm tired and there don't seem nothin' ahead. i tell the lord about it. tell him there ain't nothin' human can help. just him. and if he don't, i'm done for. ain't ever been a time yet that when i come right down to it and says, 'lord, i need you,' that the help ain't handed out. i mean help to take hold again and keep on laughing. i don't ask for automobiles and a brick house and fur coats and plum-puddin's. never did think the lord was in that kind of supply business. but when i says, 'you and me got to fight this thing out,' he ain't ever gone back on me yet. yes'm, these here is mcdougal's shoes. i was thankful enough they was in the house to put on. i always was lucky, though. but just listen at me a-runnin' on worse'n mis' buzzie tate. and i ain't even answered your question as to what i come for. maybe it's because i'm not sure how you'll take it."
miss gibbie leaned over and with the poker broke a large lump of coal, making it blaze and roar in licking, outleaping flames. "what is it? i'm not dangerous, i hope."
"no'm, you're not dangerous." mrs. mcdougal straightened her now dry skirt. "but you might think i was audacious, which is what i am, i reckon. i don't mean nothin' like that, and i ain't got no more use for familiarity than you have, but my grandmother always told me if you heard anything kind about a person 'twas your business to pass it on same as unkind things is passed. and i just want to tell you that the day i was takin' them eggs around, the day mr. john told me in words what i'd long known without 'em, as to who yorkburg's friend was, i heard so many downright gratitudes and appreciations along with the surprise and the raisin' up of hands and eyes that i wonder your ears didn't burn plum off. i ain't sayin' 'twas fulsome praise they chucked at you. it warn't. you ain't the kind what folks is free with. you can't help it, never havin' been thrown much with back-yards and acquainted chiefly with the parlor. but all that's wanted is the chance to love you. they know you're their friend. you've proved it by acts, instead of words, the usual way, and if'n you could see fit to sometimes pay a visit when miss mary goes away—"
she stopped. miss gibbie pushed her chair back farther in the shadow, and with her hand shaded her face. for a long moment there was silence, then mrs. mcdougal examined carefully the soles of her shoes, after which she took up her hat and smoothed the breast of the once sniffy duck.
"i ain't a-goin' to say anythin' about miss mary's leavin' yorkburg," she said, presently, "except this—i had to go to the woodhouse about it and get plum down on my knees and own up i was cussin' mean and selfish not to be smilin' glad she and mr. john were goin' to get married. they're young, miss gibbie, and it's nature for young folks to love each other and go hand in hand through life. me and you both is thankful his hand is for her and hers is for him. but your heart can be thankful and ache, too. if you'll be excusin' of my seemin' free, i just wanted to tell you yours ain't the only one what's had a great big, heavy, lovin' somethin' on it right here"—she put her closed hand on her breast—"ever since we heard the news. and it's because of that lump we ain't ever goin' to let her know we're anything but joyful. we want that weddin' to be a regular bunch of bells. christmas and easter and marriage all in one. she do look sometimes as if it will break her heart to go away and leave all she loves so here, and particular you. she don't let me speak of it, but i told her it was the lot of woman to follow on, and, of course, if she'd let herself be beguiled into lovin' a man she'd have to yield up a heap for the pleasure of his company. never did seem to me matrimony did their name and their home and their friends and their kinfolks and their wages, if they work for a livin', and take what's given 'em for the rest of their natural lives. no'm. i ain't never seen where marriage did much for women. i never had a beau. i warn't but seventeen when mcdougal asked me to marry him, and, not havin' a bit of sense, i said yes. that's all the courtin' there was. if ever i'm a widow i bet words said to her every now and then, even if she knows they ain't so."
she got up and, before the mirror over the mantel, pinned on her hat, getting it, as usual, on the side. taking up her coat, she felt it to see that it was dry, and again nodded at the lady in the chair.
"i tell you customs is curious, miss gibbie, and, bein' man-made mostly, ain't altogether in favor of females. but neither is life. life has got a lot in it what ain't apple-blossoms and cherry-pie. you think you've got things like you want 'em; you peg away for this and you beat around for that, and, just as you're gettin' ready to set down and enjoy yourself, up comes somethin' you warn't a lookin' for and knocks the stuffin' clean out of you. i found out a long time ago 'twas all foolishness, this waitin' to enjoy yourself, and i says to myself, says i, 'look here, bettie frances duke mcdougal, if there's any little forget-me-nots along the road, you just pick 'em up and make a posy. don't be waitin' for american beauties to pull.' i never cared much for american beauties, anyhow. i ain't ever had one, but a whole lot of things don't give pleasure after they're got. well, good-bye, miss gibbie. i certainly have enjoyed seein' of you. i told somebody the other day that for sense and wisdom and the learnin' in books there warn't your match on earth. just to hear you talk is an edjication, and i sure do enjoy myself whenever i see you. i hope you don't mind my comin' to-day?"
miss gibbie, who had risen, held out her hand. "no," she said. "i am glad you came. i may have to send for you pretty often this winter. you can help me—you and peggy. tell peggy she must come and see me."
for an hour, two hours, miss gibbie sat before her fire, hands in her lap, eyes unseeing, bent upon the curling, darting flames. one by one days of the past year come before her, stopped or passed on according to their memories. the long talks with mary of late repeated themselves, and she felt again the warm, young arms about her as she was told that which she knew so well. john's hands, too, seemed again to hold hers as he asked for the promised blessing, and when he bent and kissed her she had laughed lightly lest her heart give sign of its twisting, shivering hurt.
suddenly her face fell forward in her hands. "so many lonely people in the world," she said, under her breath, "so many people in lonely land! nobody to wait for when the day is done. nobody to go to when darkness falls!"
after a while she got up and walked over to the window and stood beside it. the early twilight had become night, but the first snow of the season showed clearly in the unbroken whiteness of lawn and long, straight street and roofs of seeming marble. the burdened branches of crystal-coated trees swayed in the wind, and here and there, in the light cast from tall poles at long intervals apart, they gleamed in dazzling brilliance and flashing sheen. past streets and houses on to open fields, her eyes, through the whirling, fast-falling snow, followed the calverton road which led to tree hill, and in the darkness she saw the lights in the house twinkle faintly in the flake-filled air.
drawing the curtains farther aside, she stood close to the window and pressed her face upon it. behind the house and below the apple orchard at a snow-covered mound she was now in spirit, and under her breath she made effort to speak bravely.
"a lonely old woman, colleen. a lonely old woman, but the old must not get in the way of the young. your eyes have been upon me. you've made me remember youth comes but once, and life—is love."
the opening of the door made her turn quickly. snow-covered, faces flushed with the sting of biting wind, vivid and full of glow, they stood before her—mary and john.
"i had to see you." unfastening the fur coat, mary handed it to john, then threw her arms around miss gibbie. "are you sure you are perfectly well? this morning you seemed to have a little cold, and i couldn't—"
"—rest until she saw for herself how you were to-night." john put the coat on the chair. "i told her i'd come and see you, but that wouldn't do."
"of course it wouldn't!" again the face held between her hands was searched anxiously, and her eyes lighted with glad relief. "i was so worried. i'm never going to let anybody see for me how you are. i'm going to always see for myself!"
