"Stop!" said Mrs. Tree, striking her ebony stick sharply on the floor. There was an instant of dead silence, no one stirring.
"Direxia," she added, presently, "go and set another place for supper!"
Direxia hesitated. The stick struck the floor again, and she vanished, muttering.
"Shut the door!" Mrs. Tree commanded, addressing the stranger. "Come here and sit down! No, not on that cheer. Take the ottoman with the bead puppy on it. There!"
As the man drew forward the ottoman without looking at it, and sat down, she leaned back easily in her chair, and spoke in a half-confidential tone:
"I get crumpled up, sitting here alone. Some day I shall turn to wood. I like a new face and a new notion. I had a grandson who used to live with me, and I'm lonesome since he died. How do you like tramping, now?"
"Pretty well," said the man. He spoke over his shoulder, and kept his face toward the fire; it was a chilly evening. "It's all right in summer, or when a man has his health."
"See things, hey?" said the old lady. "New folks, new faces? Get ideas; is that it?"
The man nodded gloomily.
"That begins it. After awhile—I really think I must go!" he said, breaking off short. "You are very kind, madam, but I prefer to go. I am not fit—"