Mrs. Hanna stopped crocheting, but held her hands stationary, almost level with her eyes, and looked over them in surprise at her questioner.
“Why, she ust to live here, you know.”
“She did! In this house?”
“Why, yes. Didn’t you know that? Oh, they ust to be right well off in her husband’s time. I visited here consid’rable. My! the good things she always had to eat. I can taste ’em yet.”
“Hunh! I’m sorry I can’t give you as good as she did,” said Mrs. Bridges, stiffly.
“Well, as if you didn’t! You set a beautiful table, Mis’ Bridges, an’, what’s more, that’s your reputation all over. Everybody says that about you.”
Mrs. Bridges smiled deprecatingly, with a slight blush of pleasure.
“They do, Mis’ Bridges. I just told you about Mis’ Lane because you’d never think it now of the poor, old creature. An’ such flowers as she ust to have on both sides that walk! Lark-spurs, an’ sweet-williams, an’ bach’lor’s-buttons, an’ mournin’-widows, an’ pumgranates, an’ all kinds. Guess you didn’t know she set out that pink cabbage-rose at the north end o’ the front porch, did you? An’ that hop-vine that you’ve got trained over your parlor window—set that out, too. An’ that row o’ young alders between here an’ the barn—she set ’em all out with her own hands; dug the holes herself, an’ all. It’s funny she never told you she lived here.”
“Yes, it is,” said Mrs. Bridges, slowly and thoughtfully.
“It’s a wonder to me she never broke down an’ cried when she was visitin’ here. She can’t so much as mention the place without cryin’.”