straightened up and drew her frayed shawl a bit closer around her shoulders. That shiver meant that a rabbit was running over her grave. Jesus have mercy, how she hated to think of a grave on a lonesome black night like this.
The fire spat sharply when raindrops fell down the chimney and dulled its flame. Mary put down her needle and with the long iron poker punched the sticks of wood sharply together to make them brighter.
The top of the pot which hung on a pot hook in the back of the fireplace began clicking and clattering as steam from the stew inside it rose and filled the room with pleasant smell of goatmeat and herbs cooking together. Outside, in the rain, a goat bleated pitifully. Poor little Nan. She must smell the stew which was made out of her own son, a weanling born only last spring. She ought not to take his death so hard. She would have two more kids as soon as next spring came. Fretting would dry up her good sweet milk, make it bitter, and the babies would suffer.
Mary got up and, taking down the door-bar, cracked the door open wide enough to peer out into the thick wet darkness. "Nan—Nan," she called gently, "don' fret so hard, gal."
Nan's quivering answer guided Mary's eyes
