“I done the best I could, marm.” Doubting his senses, Silas saw Maria bring out the haircloth rocking-chair with the bead tidy from the best front room. “Lemme carry it,” said the tramp politely. “Now set in't yerself, marin, an' be comfurble.” He took a wooden chair, tilted it back and picked up the cat. Maria, before she sat down, unmindful of Silas's bewildered stare, filled one of his pipes with his tobacco.
“I know you smoke, mister,” she smiled.
“Wal, I do,” answered the tramp, whiffing away in great comfort. “'Pears to me you're the biggest-hearted woman I ever see.”
She laughed bitterly. “There wan't a cluser woman in Corinth than me, an' folks'll tell you so. I turned my own son outer doors.”
“It was part my fault, Mri, an' you hush now,” pleaded Silas, forgiving even her giving his tobacco away if she would not bring out that family skeleton.
“I've heered you was cluse,” said the stranger, “an' thet you sent Jim off because he went to circuses in Bath, an' wore store clothes, an' wanted wages to pay for 'em.”
“All true,” said Maria, “an' he wanted to ride the horse, an' was mad at workin' him so hard.” She went on then, and told how the old animal had come home.
“An' me thinkin' the critter was a speerit,” said the stranger in a hushed voice. “Beat's all what a dumb brute knows!”
“I thought mebbe,” went on Maria, twisting her thin fingers, “as Jim might be comin' home this time. They says things happens curious when folks is goin' ter die——”
“Your good fur a good meny years, M'ri,” said Silas, pitifully.