Peter deliberated and cleared his throat.
"She's yore sister," he got out, finally, "an' the last time I went to 'er cabin she wouldn't listen to me no more 'n ef I wus a rat a-squeakin'. You see, a feller's sorter expected to—"
"I don't keer ef she is my sister, I ain't a-goin' in thar, an' that settles it. I declare I'd be ashamed to call myse'f a man ef I wus afeerd uv a weakly, bent-over old woman like she is."
Peter stirred uneasily in his chair.
"I don't keer about holdin' no talk with 'er—ur startin' 'er off by the sight o' me—but I'll go thar—I see 'er door ain't shet—an' I'll put the grub whar she'll see it."
"Well, that'll do," agreed Mrs. Slogan. "Feedin' 'er ain't a-goin' to make 'er any wuss, an' it mought have a quietin' effect."
Peter took the improvised tray when it was brought to him and went out with it, returning in a moment.
"I ketched 'er a-lookin' right at me," he said, "an' so I jest walked bold-faced in an' put the stuff on a table in front of 'er. She looked down in the fire an' didn't speak, an' I didn't nuther. She didn't look one bit dangerous. Now that I've seed 'er, I reckon I'll sleep some. I'm dem glad I did. Ef you'll jest take a peep at 'er you'll feel better."
"Well, I won't close my two eyes," affirmed his wife. "I hain't seed 'er, nur I don't intend to, ef I kin git out of it."
When supper was ready they softly moved their chairs to their places and sat down. Mrs. Slogan didn't eat heartily, but Peter's appetite seemed normal. They had finished eating, Peter had secured his toothpick from the broom, and they had moved back to the fireplace, when they heard a stealthy step on the passage floor near the door. The bolt was turned, the door shutter creaked and moved a few inches. A hand came in sight, and something wrapped in brown paper was tossed into the centre of the room. Then the steps receded, and they heard the widow resume her chair.