"What for? Come, get in," he said.
Myron was so well used to being told what to do, and so little used to refusing, that she half made a step towards the wagon then—"No, I mustn't"—she paused—"you know—I——"
"Don't be a goose, Myron," returned he with decision. "Climb in here! I never see you these days, and we used to be good friends——" The infrequent tears rushed to her eyes. Without more ado, she went to the side of the wagon and set a foot on the step; the impatient horses started, and she felt herself half lifted in by Homer's strong arm. The horses sprang forward, to be soon checked, though, for Homer was evidently in no hurry that morning; indeed, the horses were restrained to an unwilling walk.
"How's things getting on with you, Myron?" asked Homer, trying to speak in a commonplace tone.
"Oh, just the same," she answered, unsteadily. "Mrs. Deans kindly keeps me on."
"Oh, she does, does she?" asked Homer. "Very good of her, I'm sure; she's a most charitable woman, Mrs. Deans is!"
Myron somehow felt her heart sink at this. Of late, aroused from the first bewilderment of her shame, she had wondered once or twice if Mrs. Deans was so wholly admirable in her life and intentions as she said she was; if she herself was so utterly vile. Homer's reply showed her, or so she thought, that she was wrong in doubting Mrs. Deans.
"Yes," went on Homer, "Mrs. Deans is what Ma calls a 'mother in Israel,' and no mistake. How many she's mothered! All these Home girls! And now struggling with you! Really, Myron, you might be thought most fortunate to get into such a household." Something in his voice gave Myron courage to look up. She did—but let her eyes fall before the bitter sneer that lurked on his lip, the scorn that shone in his eyes. In that instant she gathered, however, that none of it was for her; the next she was conscious of a desire to say something to Homer of Mrs. Deans' meanness, backbiting, insincerity, hypocrisy. Myron Holder had naturally a sweet disposition, but the happiest of us, even, have sometimes a longing desire to pull another down, and for a moment this temptation assailed her with almost irresistible strength. She was so inured to blame herself, that to hear another dispraised, and that other the woman who embittered each hour of the day for her, was perilously sweet. She half parted her lips, but the generous spirit that had survived so many blows, so much injustice, yet endured and stifled the impulse. She sat silent. A jingling of loose tires, a rattling of loose bolts, and the uneven beating of a lame horse's hoofs struck upon their ears; some one was coming from the village.
"Hullo," said Homer, without looking round, "here's old Crow Muir coming!" The young men of Jamestown had an irreverent habit of calling Mr. Muir "Crow"—due to the solemn hue of his garb. A poor compliment any self-respecting crow would have deemed it, at least, when Mr. Muir was attired, as he was this morning, in his oldest suit of black.
Mr. Muir's vocation compelling him to travel usually in a silent and slow way, he liked, when not bent upon an official errand, to go as swiftly and noisily as he could. He had an old piebald mare, the original plan of whose anatomy was so obscured by lumps and distorted by twists as to be almost obliterated; she was very lame in the nigh forefoot and had the stringhalt in her off hind leg, so that her gait was somewhat startling to behold; her neck was long and lean, her head heavy, her nose Roman, her eyes set close together in a bald face, her tail was more like a mule's than a horse's; but despite these peculiarities, which by some people might have been considered disabilities, she was the fastest animal in Jamestown, and her progeny was noted far and wide among the local sports. The vehicle behind this gallant steed was as direct a contradiction to the stately hearse as could be imagined. It was a light wagon, set upon ridiculously high wheels, which, being always adjusted loosely at the axle, had a lateral as well as an onward movement; the body of the wagon was not more than five inches deep and painted a bright green (the same paint that coated the undertaker's veranda made his wagon a thing of vernal beauty). The seat was uncushioned and had rungs in the back, like a chair—in fact, it was a section taken from one of the long, old-fashioned desks that had been removed from the school a few years before this time.