complaint Sairy's got!... They's been sev'ral. Complaint's older 'n you
or me.... Dum near as old as Deacon Pettybone. Uh-huh!... She's got a
attack of life, Nahum, and the only cure for it ever discovered is to
let her live.... Sairy's woke up out of childhood, Nahum. She's jest
openin' her eyes. Perty soon she'll be stirrin' around brisk.... When
you goin' to drive her in, Nahum? To-morrer?"

"You--you advise letting her do this thing?"

"When you goin' to fetch her in, Nahum?" Scattergood repeated.

"She said she was coming Monday."

"Um!... G'-by, Nahum." This was Scattergood's invariable phrase of
dismissal, given to friend or enemy alike. It was characteristic of him
that when he was through with a conversation he ended it--and left no
doubt in anybody's mind that it _was_ ended. Nahum withdrew
apologetically. Scattergood called after him, "Fetch her here--to me,"
he said, and, automatically, it seemed, reached for the laces of his
shoes. A problem had been presented to him which required a deal of
solving, and Scattergood could not concentrate with toes imprisoned in
leather. He even removed the white woolen socks which Mandy, his wife,
compelled him to wear in the winter season. Presently he was twiddling
his pudgy toes and concentrating on Sarah Pound. He waggled his head.
"After livin' out there," he said to himself, "she'll think Coldriver's
livin'--and so 'tis, so 'tis.... More sometimes 'n 'tis others.
Calculate this is like to be one of 'em...."

Scattergood was just thinking about dinner on Monday when Nahum Pound
brought his daughter Sarah into the store. One glance at Sarah's face