“No; the government ain’t goin’ to stop it. Lizzie Graham’s goin’ to stop it.”
“What on airth you talkin’ about?”
“Why, Emmy woman, don’t ye know the United States government ain’t no such fool as to go on payin’ a woman for havin’ a dead husband when she catches holt of a livin’ one? Don’t you know that?”
“Josh Butterfield!—you don’t mean—”
“Why, that’s true. Didn’t you know that? Well, well! Why, a smart widow woman could get consid’able of a income by sendin’ husbands to wars, if it wa’n’t for that. Well, well; to think you didn’t know that! Wonder if Lizzie does?”
“She don’t!” Mrs. Butterfield said, excitedly; “course she don’t. She’s calculatin’ on havin’ that pension same as ever. Why, she can’t marry Nat. Goodness! I guess I’ll just step down and tell her. Lucky you told me to-night; to-morrow it would ’a’ been too late!”
IV
Lizzie Graham was sitting in the dark on her door-step; a cat had curled up comfortably in her lap; her elm was faintly murmurous with a constant soft rustling and whispering of the lace of leaves around its great boughs. Now and then a tree-toad spoke, or from the pasture pond behind the house came the metallic twang of a bullfrog. But nothing else broke the deep stillness of the summer night. Lizzie’s elbow was on her knee, her chin in her hand; she was listening to the peace, and thinking—not anxiously, but seriously. After all, it was a great undertaking: Nathaniel wasn’t “hearty,” perhaps,—but when you don’t average four eggs a day (for in November and December the hens do act like they are possessed!); when sometimes your cow will be dry; when your neighbor is mad and won’t remember the potato-barrel—the outlook for one is not simple; for two it is sobering.
“But I can do it,” Lizzie said to herself, and set her lips hard together.
The gate clicked shut, and Mrs. Butterfield came in, running almost. “Look here, Lizzie Graham,—oh my! wait till I get my breath;—Lizzie, you can’t do it. Because—” And then, panting, she explained. “So, you see, you just can’t,” she repeated.