"Well, I dunno's they'll come"—
Mary walked past him, her mind assured.
"There, that'll do," said she. "You set down in your corner. I'll be back byme-by."
She hurried out into the bleak world which was her home, and, at that moment, it looked very fair and new. The birds were singing, loudly as they ever sang up here where there were few leaves to nest in. Mary stopped an instant to listen, and lifted her face wordlessly to the clear blue sky. It seemed as if she had been given a gift. There, before one of the houses, she called aloud, with a long, lingering note, "Jacob!" and Jacob Pease rose from his milking-stool, and came forward. Jacob was tall and snuff-colored, a widower of three years' standing. There was a theory that he wanted Mary, and lacked the courage to ask her.
"That you, Mary Dunbar?" said he. "Anything on hand?"
"I want you to come and help me lift," answered Mary.
Jacob set down his milk pail, and followed her into the Veaseys' kitchen. She drew out the tin basin, and filled it at the sink.
"Wash your hands," said she. "Adam, you set where you generally do. You'll be in the way."
Jacob followed her into the sick-room, and Adam weakly shuffled in behind.