Part 9 (2/2)

He thought he had never seen her cheeks so red. They made him think of the partridge-berries under the snow. She began her tale, looking indifferently at him as she proceeded, as if to convince them both that there was nothing peculiar in it all.

”Aunt Hill's an awful trial to mother.”

Jerry took up his axe in one hand, and began absently chopping off a circle of bark about the tree. Stella was near saying, ”Don't you cut your foot!” but she closed her lips upon the friendly caution and continued:--

”There's nothin' she don't get her nose into, and it just wears mother out.”

”She's a great talker, seems if I remembered,” said Jerry absently, wis.h.i.+ng Stella would keep her hands under the shawl and not get them frozen to death. He was about to add that most women did talk too much, but somehow that seemed an unfortunate implication from one as unpopular as he, and he caught himself up in time. Stella was das.h.i.+ng on now, in the course of her obnoxious task.

”If anything's queer, she just goes at mother hard as she can pelt and keeps at her till she finds it out. And mother hates it enough when she's well, but when she's sick it's just awful. And now she's flat on her back.”

”Course,” said Jerry, in a comprehending sympathy. ”Want I should carry your aunt Hill off to the Junction?”

”Why, you can't! She wouldn't go. You couldn't pry her out with a crowbar. She's made up her mind to stay till a week from to-morrow, and till a week from to-morrow she'll stay.”

Jerry looked gloomily into the distance. He was feeling his own limitations as a seer.

”Well,” he said, venturing a remark likely to involve him in no way, ”I s'pose she will.”

”Now, see here,” said Stella. She spoke with a defiant hardness, the measure of her hatred for what she had to do. ”There's one way you could help us out. She asked about you right away, and of course she thought we were--goin' together, same 's we had been.”

Here her voice failed her, and he knew the swift color on her cheek was the miserable sign of her shame in such remembrance. It became his task to hearten her.

”Course,” said he. ”Anybody would.”

”Well, I can't tell her. I ain't even told mother yet, and I don't want to till she's on her feet again. And if aunt Hill gets the leastest wind of it she'll hound mother every minute, and mother'll give up, and--well, I just can't do it, that's all.”

Jerry was advancing eagerly now, his lips parted for speech; but her task once begun was easier, and she continued:--

”Now, don't you see? I should think you could.”

”Yes,” said Jerry, in great hopefulness. ”Course I do.”

”No, you don't either. It's only, she's goin' to be here not quite a week, and it's only one Sat.u.r.day night.”

”Yes,” said Jerry, ”that's to-morrer night.”

”Well, don't you see? If you don't come over, she'll wonder why, and mother'll wonder why, and mother'll ask me, and, oh, dear! dear!”

Jerry thought she really was going to cry, this time, and it seemed to him that these domestic whirlwinds furnished ample reason for it.

”Course!” he said, in whole-hearted misery for her. ”It's a bad place.

A man wouldn't think anything of it, but womenfolks are different.

They'd mind it terribly. Anybody could see they would.”

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