"What's the matter, old Sweetie--tired?" she demanded as he came
alongside and leaned against the wall near her. His big gray eyes were
troubled and there was not the sign of the usual quizzical smile. The
forelock hung down in a curl from under the brim of the old gray hat
and the lavender muffler swung at loose ends. As he lighted the old
cob his lean brown hands trembled slightly and he utterly refused to
look into Rose Mary's eyes. "What is it, honey-heart?" she demanded
again.

"What's what, Rose Mary?" asked Uncle Tucker with a slight rift in the
gloom. "They are some women in the world, if a man was to seal up his
trouble in a termater-can and swoller it, would get a button-hook and
a can-opener to go after him to get it out. You belong to that
persuasion."

"I want to be the tomato-can--and not be 'swollered'," answered Rose
Mary as she reached over and gently removed the tattered gray roof
from off the white shock and began to smooth and caress its brim into
something of its former shape. "I know something is the matter, and if
it's your trouble it's mine. I'm your heir at law, am I not?"

"Yes, and you're a-drawing on the estate for more'n your share of
pesters, looks like," answered Uncle Tucker as he raised his eyes to
hers wistfully.

"Is it something about--about the mortgage?" asked Rose Mary in the
gently hushed tone that she always used in speaking of this ever
couchant enemy of their peace.