“I hain't bunchin' 'em together at all,” Porter declared. “I was only tryin' to keep you from layin' in a burial outfit that may go out o' fashion 'fore Cynthy wants to use it. You watch 'er an' you'll see 'er pick up' in a day or so. I've seed widows wear black so heavy that the dye in the goods seemed to soak into the'r skins an' drip of'n the'r eyelashes, an' them same women was wearin' red stockin's an' flirtin' em at another fool inside of a month.”
“You don't know what you are talking about,” responded Mrs. Porter. “It is going hard with her, but I really hope Floyd'll not come back to Spring-town. I don't feel safe with him around.”
“You don't want 'im here,” sneered Porter, “but yo're dead sure his absence is a-goin' to lay our only child under the sod. That's about as sensible as the stand a woman takes on most questions. As fer me, I confess I'm sorter upset. I'd about made up my mind that our little gal was goin' to yank that chap an' his boodle into this family before long, but it looks like I was off in my calculations. To look at her now, a body wouldn't think she was holdin' the drivin'-reins very tight. But come what may, storm, hail, wind, rain, or sunshine an' fine crops, I'll be the only one, I reckon, in this house that will sleep sound to-night. An' that's whar you are all a set o' fools. A person that loses sleep wonderin' whether another person is dead or alive mought be in better business, in this day and time, when just anybody is liable to drap dead in the'r tracks. La, me! What you got fer dinner? I smell some'n' a-cookin'.”
And Porter went into the kitchen, got down on his knees at the stove, and looked into it.
“That's all right,” he said to himself, with a chuckle, “but she hain't put half enough gravy on it, an' ef I hadn't a-been here to 'a' turned it, it 'ud not 'a' got cooked clean through. If it's tough I'll raise a row. I told 'em to sell the tough 'uns. What's the use o' raisin' hens ef you have to eat the scrubs an' don't git half-pay fer the ones you send to market?”
XXVII
A WEEK went by. To Cynthia its days were veritable months of mental torture. Porter came in one day at sundown from the village. As usual, he had something to say regarding the all-absorbing topic of Nelson Floyd's mysterious disappearance. Through the day neighbors had been in with many vague and groundless rumors, all of which were later discredited, but Nathan Porter, sardonic old observer that hie was, usually got nearer the facts than any one else, and in consequence he was always listened to.
“What's anybody heard now?” his wife asked him, as he came through the gate to where she and Cynthia sat on the porch.