The tall man looked into the fire a moment before saying, "No—I gave it away."
"Gave it away?"—and there was a tone of disappointment in her voice.
"Yes. I'll tell you about it. When I got out to Kelly's I found the poor woman in bed, and a new-born baby. The little thing didn't have any clothes or any warm blanket to wrap around it. I looked at that fine, thick, warm, wool muffler all made by your hands, and I hated to give it up. But that baby, Ann—it was such a little helpless thing and so pitiful, and its mother's eyes looked in such a hungry way at that gray muffler, I couldn't help it. So I wrapped it up myself. And I felt that if you had been there you would have done the wrappin'. In fact, I could see you foldin' the warm cover around that poor little thing. You would have done it—wouldn't you, Ann?"
"Yes, Abraham."
"I was sure of it. Perhaps you'll make me another some time. Now go on with your spinnin' and your song. It is the best music a tired man could ever hear."
Ann turned the wheel a few times, but she did not sing. "When a woman gets loving Jesus," he observed, "it's a sign she's lovin' somebody else. Who do you love, Ann?"
This unexpected question took Ann quite by surprise.
"You know as well as I do that I am engaged to marry John McNeil. And don't you think he is one of the best young men in town?" There was a suggestion of appeal in the question.
"I am sure he is—one of the very best in the county. But tell me, Ann, what it is to love. You know the spellin' book definition. It's in the Bible, too, that love is stronger than death. But they both came out of somebody's mind first, somebody who loved. Tell me about it."
"Why should I know?"