"Matildy Bent, take that back! Take it back, for mercy sake! Don't you dare die thinkin' that—don't you dare!"
Bent, hearing her voice rising, came to the door, and the wife, knowing his step, cried:
"Don't let him in! Don't! I can't bear him—keep him out; I don't want to see him ag'in."
"Who do you mean? Not Joe?"
"Yes. Him."
Had the dying woman confessed to murder, good Martha could not have been more shocked. She could not understand this terrible revulsion in feeling, for she herself had been absolutely loyal to her husband through all the trials which had come upon them.
But she met Bent at the threshold, and, closing the door, went out with him into the summer kitchen, where the rest of the family were sitting. A gloomy silence fell on them all after the greetings were over. The men were smoking; all were seated in chairs tipped back against the wall. Joe Bent, a smallish man, with a weak, good-natured face, asked in a hoarse whisper:
"How is she, Mis' Ridings?"
"She seems quite strong, Mr. Bent. I think you had all better go to bed; if I want you I can call you. Doctor give me directions."
"All right," responded the relieved man. "I'll sleep on the lounge in the other room. If you want me, just rap on the door."