Mrs. Marshall began dipping the hot, stewed tomatoes into the glass
jars ready in a big pan of boiling water on the back of the stove. The
steam rose up, like a cloud, into her face, which began to turn red
and to glisten with perspiration. "Oh, I don't suppose it really
frightened the bear," she said moderately, refraining from the
dramatic note of completeness which her husband, in spite of himself,
gave to everything he touched, and adding instead the pungent, homely
savor of reality, which none relished more than Sylvia and her father,
incapable themselves of achieving it. "'Most likely the bear would
have gone away of his own accord anyhow. They don't attack people
unless they're stirred up." Arnold bit deeply into the solidity of
this unexaggerated presentation, and was silent for a moment, saying
then: "Well, anyhow, she didn't _know_ he'd go away! She was a sport,
all right!"

"Oh yes, indeed," said Mrs. Marshall, dipping and steaming, and wiping
away the perspiration, which ran down in drops to the end of her
large, shapely nose. "Yes, my grandmother was a sport, all right." The
acrid smell of hot, cooking tomatoes filled the shed and spread to the
edge where Sylvia and her aunt stood, still a little aloof. Although
it bore no resemblance to the odor of violets, it could not be called
a disgusting smell: it was the sort of smell which is quite agreeable
when one is very hungry. But Sylvia was not hungry at all. She stepped
back involuntarily. Mrs. Marshall-Smith, on the contrary, advanced a
step or so, until she stood close to her sister-in-law. "Barbara, I'd
like to see you a few minutes without the children," she remarked in
the neutral tone she always had for her brother's wife. "A rather
unpleasant occurrence--I'm in something of a quandary."

Mrs. Marshall nodded. "All right," she agreed. "Scatter out of here,