Old Lady Number 31 | Page 6

within the entrance, beneath the sweeping plumes
of a weeping-willow tree, was a shabby but inviting green bench.
Abe's glance wandered from the bench to his wife's face. Angy could
not lift her eyes to him; with bowed head she was latching and

unlatching the gate through which he must pass. He looked at the sun
and thoughtfully made reckon of the time. There were still two hours
before he could take the train which--
"Lef 's go set deown a spell afore--" he faltered--"afore we say
good-by."
She made no answer. She told herself over and over that she
must--simply must--stop that "all-of-a-tremble" feeling which was
going on inside of her. She stepped from the gate to the bench blindly,
with Abe's hand on her arm, though, still blindly, with exaggerated care
she placed his carpet-bag on the grass beside her.
He laid down his cane, took off his high hat and wiped his brow. He
looked at her anxiously. Still she could not lift her blurred eyes, nor
could she check her trembling.
Seeing how she shook, he passed his arm around her shoulder. He
murmured something--what, neither he nor she knew--but the love of
his youth spoke in the murmur, and again fell the silence.
Angy's eyes cleared. She struggled to speak, aghast at the thought that
life itself might be done before ever they could have one hour together
again; but no words came. So much--so much to say! She reached out
her hand to where his rested upon his knee. Their fingers gripped, and
each felt a sense of dreary cheer to know that the touch was speaking
what the tongue could not utter.
Time passed swiftly. The silent hour sped on. The young blades of corn
gossiped gently along the field. Above, the branches of the willow
swished and swayed to the rhythm of the soft, south wind.
"How still, how still it is!" whispered the breeze.
"Rest, rest, rest!" was the lullaby swish of the willow.
The old wife nestled closer to Abraham until her head touched his
shoulder. He laid his cheek against her hair and the carefully preserved

old bonnet. Involuntarily she raised her hand, trained by the years of
pinching economy, to lift the fragile rose into a safer position. He
smiled at her action; then his arm closed about her spasmodically and
he swallowed a lump in his throat.
The afternoon was waning. Gradually over the turmoil of their hearts
stole the garden's June-time spirit of drowsy repose.
They leaned even closer to each other. The gray of the old man's hair
mingled with the gray beneath Angeline's little bonnet. Slowly his eyes
closed. Then even as Angy wondered who would watch over the
slumbers of his worn old age in the poorhouse, she, too, fell asleep.

III
THE CANDIDATE
The butcher's boy brought the tidings of the auction sale in at the
kitchen door of the Old Ladies' Home even while Angy and Abe were
lingering over their posies, and the inmates of the Home were waiting
to receive the old wife with the greater sympathy and the deeper spirit
of welcome from the fact that two of the twenty-nine members had
known her from girlhood, away back in the boarding-school days.
"Yop," said the boy, with one eye upon the stout matron, who was
critically examining the meat that he had brought. "Yop, the auction's
over, an' Cap'n Rose, he--Don't that cut suit you, Miss Abigail? You
won't find a better, nicer, tenderer, and more juicier piece of shoulder
this side of New York. Take it back, did you say? All right, ma'am, all
right!" His face assumed a look of resignation: these old ladies made
his life a martyrdom. He used to tell the "fellers" that he spent one half
his time carrying orders back and forth from the Old Ladies' Home. But
now, in spite of his meekness of manner, he did not intend to take this
cut back. So with Machiavellian skill he hastened on with his gossip.
"Yop, an' they only riz one hundred dollars an' two cents--one hundred
dollars an' a postage-stamp. I guess it's all up with the cap'n an' the Old

Men's. I don't see 'em hangin' out no 'Welcome' sign on the strength of
that."
"You're a horrid, heartless little boy!" burst forth Miss Abigail, and,
flinging the disputed meat on the table, she sank down into the chair,
completely overcome by sorrow and indignation. "You'll be old yerself
some day," she sobbed, not noticing that he was stealthily edging
toward the door, one eye on her, one on to-morrow's pot-roast. "I tell
yew, Tommy," regaining her accustomed confiding amiability, as she
lifted the corner of her apron to wipe her eyes, "Miss Ellie will feel
some kind o' bad, tew.