"If it'd been me, I'd 'a' turned round an' got out. But Calliope was as brave as two, an' she spoke up.
"'This must be the invalid,' she says, cheerful. 'We hope we see you at the best.'
"The man stirs some an' looks over at us kind o' eager—he was oldish, an' the firelight bein' in his eyes, he couldn't see us.
"'It isn't anybody to see me, is it?' he asks.
"At that Calliope steps forward—I remember how she looked in her pretty gray dress with some light thing over her head, an' her starched white skirts was rustlin' along under, soundin' so genteel she seemed to me like strangers do. When he see her, the man made to get up, but he was too weak for it.
"'Why, yes,' she answers him, 'if you're well enough to see anybody.'
"An' at that the man put his hands on his knees an' leaned sort o' hunchin' forward.
"'Calliope!' he says.
"It was him, sure enough—Calvert Oldmoxon. Same big, wide-apart, lonesome eyes an' kind o' crooked frown. His hair was gray, an' so was his pointed beard, an' he was crool thin. But I'd 'a' known him anywheres.
"Calliope, she just stood still. But when he reached out his hand, his lips parted some like a child's an' his eyes lookin' up at her, she went an' stood near him, by the table, an' she set her basket there an' leaned down on the handle, like her strength was gone.