"He 'd have no relations," he said. "He 'd want a home of his own."
"Poor boy," she sighed tremulously. "He 's home this many a day. Let bygones be."
"He could be some help to yuh, ma'am," he suggested meekly.
She felt the tears gathering in her eyes. "Well, well," she chafed. "I been gettin' on here alone these thurty years. Please God, I 'll finish it so."
He sat with his eyes on the kettle, and said nothing while she got down two stone-china cups and saucers from a shelf in the corner, and placed them on the little table. "Will yeh have a bite o' bread?" she asked him. "'T is all I have to set before yeh."
He nodded.
She ran along with an explanation that bread and tea was all she ate herself; meat was too tough for her; she had an egg on Easter Sunday, but it had made her sick.
She poured out the tea for him, and he drew up his chair at her bidding. He began to stir the drink with a pewter spoon, both elbows on the table.
"Ma'am," he said, "Jim Farrell now—I ain't sure 't he was killed at Gettysburg. He might be livin' fer all I know."
"Man alive," she cried, "will yeh niver have done? Why do yeh be botherin' an' ol' woman with sich like nonsinse! It 's forty years ago, d' yeh mind? Forty years ago! Let thim that's dead rest in peace, will yeh?" Her anger passed in the instant. "Now, I
