Apparently Mrs. Williams did not hear the gently uttered words. There was a look of stern determination on her face, and she drove straight on toward an objective point unknown to her listener.
"Do you know, Mrs. Martin," she asked, "how long your Henry has been courtin' my Anna Belle?"
Mrs. Martin looked bewildered.
"Why, no," she said, hesitatingly. "I don't believe I ever thought about it."
"Well," said Mrs. Williams with grave emphasis, "it's exactly one year and a month, come next Wednesday. I know, because the first time Henry ever come home from prayer-meetin' with Anna Belle was the day after I fell down the cellar stairs and broke my wrist, and I'm not likely to forget when that was. One year and one month! Now, of course, I know a certain amount of courtin' is all right and proper. It's just as necessary to court before you marry as it is to say grace before you eat; but suppose you sit down to the table and say your grace over and over again, till mealtime's past, and it's pretty near time for the next meal? Why, when you open your eyes and start to eat, everything 'll be cold, and most likely you won't have any appetite for cold victuals, and you'll conclude not to eat at all till the next meal comes round. And that's the way it is with these long courtin's. Folks' feelin's cool just like a meal does. Many a couple gets tired of each other after they're married, and there's such a thing as gettin' tired of each other before you're married."
Mrs. Martin was listening with rapt intentness. The gift of fluent speech was not hers. She could only think and feel, but it was a delight to listen to one who knew how to express thoughts and feelings in language that went straight to the mark.
"I've always thought that way," she said with gentle fervor, as her visitor paused for breath.
"Well," continued Mrs. Williams, "I made up my mind some time ago that Henry and Anna Belle had been sayin' grace long enough, and it was time for them to marry, if they ever intended to marry. And I also made up my mind to find out what was the matter. Of course I couldn't ask Anna Belle why Henry didn't marry her. There's some things that no mother's got a right to speak of to her child, and this is one of 'em; and I couldn't say anything to Henry, for that would 'a' been a thousand times worse, but I says to myself: 'I've got a right to know what's the matter, and I'm goin' to know.'"
Mrs. Martin was leaning forward, listening breathlessly. There was a faint flush on her cheek, and her eyes were the eyes of a young girl who is reading the first pages of a romance. Her son's love affair had been the central point of interest in her life for a year past. But Henry was a taciturn youth, and her delicacy forbade questioning; so, in spite of the deep affection between the two, the rise and progress of her son's courtship was an unknown story to her. Two nights in every week Henry would take his way to the home of the girl he loved, and as she sat alone waiting for his return, and living over the days of her own courtship, she had felt a wistful, unresentful envy of Mrs. Williams because of her nearness to the lovers. The long wooing had been a mystery to her also, and now the mystery was about to be explained.
"I've wondered, myself, why they didn't marry," she said hesitatingly.