“An' I hain't money nor nawthin' to pay fur my vittles 'less there was wood-sawin' to be done.”
“Wood's all sawed,” said Silas bitterly.
“I wouldn't take a cent,” went on Maria, with flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes. “Ann Kirk thet hed the name of bein' as mean as me, was berried to day, and folks that keered nawthin' fur her is a goin' to hev her money an' make it fly. They say 'round here no grass will ever grow on her grave, fur ev'ry blade will be blarsted by the curses of the poor.”
“M'ri, you a perfessed Christian!” cried Silas.
“There's good folks unperfessed,” interposed the stranger; “but I dunno but a near Christian is better nor a spendthrift one as fetches up at the poorhouse.”
“Right you air!” said Silas, almost affably feeling he had an advocate.
The stranger was tall and bony, with a thin, wrinkled face bronzed by wind and weather, with a goatee and mustache of pale brown hair, and a sparse growth of the same above a high bald forehead; his eyes were a faded brown, too, and curiously wistful in expression. His clothing was worn and poor, his hands work-hardened, and he stooped slightly. When the meal was ready he drew up to the table, Maria plying him with food.
“Would you rather have coffee?” she asked.
“Now you've got me, marm, but land! tea'll do.”
“I should think it would,” snarled Silas; but his grumbling was silenced in the grinding of the coffee mill. When the ap-appetizing odor floated from the stove, Silas sniffed it, and his stomach began to yearn. “You put in a solid cup full,” he muttered, trying to worry himself into refusing it.