"Aye," the old man said as he nodded his head, "deed that's thrue for you, Mary, she may!" He took his black cutty pipe out of his mouth and gazed at me for a moment.
"What d'ye mind best about her?"
"I mind a saying she had that has gone through life with me."
"'Ivery day makes its own throuble?'"
"No, not that; something better. She used to say so often, 'It's nice to be nice.'"
"Aye, I mind that," he said.
"Then," I continued, "on Sundays when she was dressed and her nice tallied cap on her head, I thought she was the purtiest woman I ever saw!"
"'Deed, maan, she was that!"
When bed time came I took a small lap-robe from my suit case, spread it on the hard mud floor, rolled some other clothes as a pillow and lay down to rest. Sleep came slowly but as I lay I was not alone, for around me were the forms and faces of other days.
Next day I visited the scene of my boyhood's vision—I went through the woods where I had my first full meal. I visited the old church; but the good Rector was gathered to his fathers. It was all a day-dream; it was like going back to a former incarnation. Along the road on my way home I discovered the most intimate friend of my boyhood—the boy with whom I had gathered faggots, played "shinney" and gone bird-nesting. He was "nappin'" stones. He did not recognize my voice but his curiosity was large enough to make him throw down his hammer, take off the glasses that protected his eyes and stare at me.