Lois shrank away from her mother as she wept.

Mrs. Field stood over her, but she did not offer to touch her.

Indeed, this New England mother and daughter rarely or never caressed each other. "Lois, dear child, mother don't want you to feel so. Oh, you dear child, you dear child, you don't know what mother's goin'

through. But it ain't anything to you. Lois, you remember that; it ain't anything you've done. It's all my doin's. I'm jest goin' to get that money back. An' it's right I should. Don't you worry nothin'

about it. Now take your hat off, an' let mother tuck you up on the sofa."

Lois, sobbing still, began pulling off her hat mechanically. Her mother got a pillow, and she lay down on the sofa, turning her face to the wall with another outburst of tears. Her mother spread her black shawl carefully over her.

"Now you lay here still, an' get rested," said she. "I'm goin' out in the kitchen, an' see if I can't start up a fire an' get something for supper."

Mrs. Field went out of the room. Soon her tall black figure sped stealthily past the windows out of the yard. She found a grocery store, and purchased some small necessaries. There were groceries already in the pantry at the Maxwell house. She had spied them, but would not touch a single article. She bought some tea, and when she returned, replaced the drawing she had taken that morning from the Maxwell caddy.

The old woman's will, always vigorous, never giving place to another except through its own choice, now whipped by this great stress into a fierce impetus, carried her daughter's, strong as it was for a young girl, before it. Lois lay quietly on the sofa. When her mother called her, she went out in the kitchen and ate her supper.

They retired early. Lois lay on the sofa until her mother came in and stood over her with a lighted lamp.

"I guess you'd better get up and go to bed now, Lois," said she. "I'm goin' myself, if it is early. I'm pretty tired."

And Lois stirred herself wearily and got up.

There were two adjoining bedrooms opening out of the sitting-room.

Mrs. Field had prepared the beds that afternoon. "I thought we'd better sleep in here," said she, leading the way to them.

Lois had the inner room. After the lamp was blown out and everything was dark, her mother heard a soft stir and the pat of a naked foot in there, then she heard the door swing to with a cautious creak and the bolt slide. She knew with a great pang, that Lois had locked her door against her mother.

Chapter V

Elliot was only a little way from the coast, and sometimes seemed to be pervaded by the very spirit of the sea. The air would be full of salt vigor, the horizon sky take on the level, out-reaching blue of a water distance, and the clouds stand one way like white sails.

The next morning Lois sat on the front door-step of the Maxwell house, between the pillars of the porch. She bent over, leaning her elbows on her knees, making a cup of her hands, in which she rested her little face. She could smell the sea, and also the pines in the yard. There were many old pine trees, and their soft musical roar sounded high overhead. The spring air in Green River had been full of sweet moisture and earthiness from these steaming meadow-lands.

Always in Green River, above the almond scent of the flowering trees and the live breath of the new gra.s.s, came that earthy, moist odor, like a reminder of the grave. Here in Elliot one smelled the spring above the earth.

The gate clicked, and a woman came up the curving path with a kind of clumsy dignity. She was tall and narrow-shouldered, but heavy-hipped; her black skirt flounced as she walked. She stopped in front of Lois, and looked at her hesitatingly. Lois arose.

"Good-mornin'," said the woman. Her voice was gentle; she cleared her throat a little after she spoke.

"Good-morning," returned Lois, faintly.

"Is Mis' Maxwell to home?"

Lois stared at her.

"Is Mis' Maxwell to home? I heard she'd come here to live," repeated the woman, in a deprecating way. She smoothed down the folds of her over-skirt. Lois started; the color spread over her face and neck.

"No, she isn't at home," she said sharply.

"Do you know when she will be?"

"No, I don't."

The woman's face also was flushed. She turned about with a little flirt, when suddenly a door slammed somewhere in the house. The woman faced about, with a look of indignant surprise.

Lois said nothing. She opened the front door and went into the house, straight through to the kitchen, where her mother was preparing breakfast. "There's a woman out there," she said.

"Who is it?"

"I don't know. She wants to see--Mrs. Maxwell."

Lois looked full at her mother; her eyes were like an angel's before evil. Mrs. Field looked back at her. Then she turned toward the door.

Lois caught hold of her mother's dress. Mrs. Field twitched it away fiercely, and pa.s.sed on into the sitting-room. The woman stood there waiting. She had followed Lois in.

"How do you do, Mis' Maxwell?" she said.

"I'm pretty well, thank you," replied Mrs. Field, looking at her with stiff inquiry.

The woman had a pale, pretty face, and stood with a st.u.r.dy set-back on her heels. "I guess you don't know me, Mis' Maxwell," said she, smiling deprecatingly.

Mrs. Field tried to smile, but her lips were too stiff. "I guess I--don't," she faltered.

The smile faded from the woman's face. She cast an anxious glance at her own face in the gla.s.s over the mantel-shelf; she had placed herself so she could see it. "I ain't got quite so much color as I used to have," she said, "but I ain't thought I'd changed much other ways. Some days I have more color. I know I ain't this mornin'. I ain't had very good health. Maybe that's the reason you don't know me."

Mrs. Field muttered a feeble a.s.sent.

"I'd know you anywhere, but you didn't have any color to lose to make a difference. You've always looked jest the way you do now since I've known you. I lived in this house a whole year with you once. I come here to live after Mr. Maxwell's wife died. My name is Jay."

Mrs. Field stood staring. The woman, who had been looking in the gla.s.s while she talked, gave her front hair a little shake, and turned toward her inquiringly.

"Won't you sit down in this rockin'-chair, Mis' Jay?" said Mrs.

Field.

"No, thank you, I guess I won't set down, I'm in a little of a hurry.

I jest wanted to see you a minute."

Mrs. Field waited.

"You know Mr. Maxwell's dyin' so sudden made a good deal of a change for me," Mrs. Jay continued. She took out her handkerchief and wiped her eyes softly; then she glanced in the gla.s.s. "I'd had my home here a good many years, an' it seemed hard to lose it all in a minute so.

There he came home that Sunday noon an' eat a hearty dinner, an'

before sunset he had that shock, and never spoke afterward. I've thought maybe there were things he would have said if he could have spoke."

Mrs. Jay sighed heavily; her eyes reddened; she straightened her bonnet absently; her silvered fair hair was frizzed under it.

Mrs. Field stood opposite, her eyes downcast, her face rigid.

"I wanted to speak to you, Mis' Maxwell," the other woman went on. "I ain't obliged to go out anywheres to live; I've got property; but it's kind of lonesome at my sister's, where I'm livin'. It's a little out of the village, an' there ain't much pa.s.sin'. I like to be where I can see pa.s.sin', an' get out to meetin' easy if it's bad weather.

I've been thinkin'--I didn't know but maybe you'd like to have me--I heard you had some trouble with your hands, an' your niece wa'n't well--that I might be willin' to come an' stay three or four weeks. I shouldn't want to promise to stay very long."