“He wouldn't because he ain't a man,” she answered shrilly; “it's only men that gives blows for kindness!”
“Land of the living!” cried Silas, as a step sounded on the floor, and a queer figure came slowly into the glare of light by the lantern, a figure that had a Rembrandt effect in the shadow—an old man, lean and tall, shrouded in a long coat and bearing on his back a heavy basket.
“You can't be a human creetur, comin' here to-night,” said Maria; “mebbe you're the Santy Claus Jim used to tell on as the boys told him; no man in his senses would come to Sile Lowell's fur shelter.”
“M'ri's upsot,” said Silas meekly, taking the lantern with trembling hand; “I guess you've got off the road; the tavern's two mile down toward the river.”
“You've followed the right road,” said Maria; “you've come at a day of reck'nin'; everythin' in the house, the best, you shall have.”
She snatched the light from Silas and slammed the barn door, leaving Tige contentedly champing his oats, wondering if he was still dreaming, and if his wild swim had been a nightmare followed by a vision of plenty. In the kitchen Maria filled the stove, lit two lamps and began making new tea.
“Thet was a good strong drorin' we hed fur supper, M'ri,” said Silas, plaintively, keenly conscious of previous economies; “'pears to me you don't need no new.” She paid no heed to him, but set the table with the best dishes, the preserves—Silas noted with a groan—and then with quick, skillful hand began cutting generous slices of ham.
“I hope you're hungry, sir?” she asked eagerly.
“Wal, I be, marm,” said the stranger; “an' if it ain't no trouble, I'll set this ere basket nigh the stove, there's things in it as will spile. I be consederable hungry, ain't eat a bite sence yesterd'y.”
Silas's face grew longer and longer; he looked at the hamper hopefully. That might contain a peddler's outfit and “M'ri” could get paid that way.