"You had 'em this forenoon."
"Didn't no such thing. Them was my own brass-bowed ones. You had your'n jest 'fore goin' to dinner. If you'd put 'em into a proper place you'd find 'em again."
"I want 'o know if I would," the old man snorted.
"Wal, you'd orter know."
"Oh, you're awful smart, ain't yeh? You never have no trouble, and use mine—do yeh?—an' lose 'em so 't I can't—"
"And if this is the thing that goes on when I'm here it must be hell when visitors are gone," thought Will.
"Willy, ain't you goin' to meetin'?"
"No, not to-day. I want to visit a little with Agnes, then I've got to drive back to John's."
"Wal, we must be goin'. Don't you leave them dishes f'r me to wash," she screamed at Agnes as she went out the door. "An' if we don't git home by five, them caaves orter be fed."
As Agnes stood at the door to watch them drive away, Will studied her, a smothering ache in his heart as he saw how thin and bent and weary she was. In his soul he felt that she was a dying woman unless she had rest and tender care.