It seemed perfectly natural at this time that I should take the girl and her child home to Harriet.  She would not go back to her own home, though we tried to persuade her, and the Scotch Preacher’s wife was visiting in the city, so she could not go there.  But after I found myself driving homeward with the girl—­while McAlway went over the hill to tell her family—­the mood of action passed.  It struck me suddenly, “What will Harriet say?” Upon which my heart sank curiously, and refused to resume its natural position.

In the past I had brought her tramps and peddlers and itinerant preachers, all of whom she had taken in with patience—­but this, I knew, was different.  For a few minutes I wished devoutly I were in Timbuctu or some other far place.  And then the absurdity of the situation struck me all at once, and I couldn’t help laughing aloud.

“It’s a tremendous old world,” I said to myself.  “Why, anything may happen anywhere!”

The girl stirred, but did not speak.  I was afraid I had frightened her.

“Are you cold?” I asked.

“No, sir,” she answered faintly.

I could think of nothing whatever to say, so I said it: 

“Are you fond of hot corn-meal mush?”

“Yes, sir,” very faintly.

“With cream on it—­rich yellow cream—­and plenty of sugar?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, I’ll bet a nickel that’s what we’re going to get!”

“Yes, sir.”

We drove up the lane and stopped at the yard gate.  Harriet opened the door.  I led the small dark figure into the warmth and light of the kitchen.  She stood helplessly holding the baby tight in her arms—­as forlorn and dishevelled a figure as one could well imagine.

“Harriet,” I said, “this is Anna Williams.”

Harriet gave me her most tremendous look.  It seemed to me at that moment that it wasn’t my sister Harriet at all that I was facing, but some stranger and much greater person than I had ever known.  Every man has, upon occasion, beheld his wife, his sister, his mother even, become suddenly unknown, suddenly commanding, suddenly greater than himself or any other man.  For a woman possesses the occult power of becoming instantly, miraculously, the Accumulated and Personified Customs, Morals and Institutions of the Ages.  At this moment, then, I felt myself slowly but surely shrinking and shriveling up.  It is a most uncomfortable sensation to find one’s self face to face with Society-at-Large.  Under such circumstances I always know what to do.  I run.  So I clapped my hat on my head, declared that the mare must be unharnessed immediately, and started for the door.  Harriet followed.  Once outside she closed the door behind her.

“David, David, DAVID,” she said.

It occurred to me now for the first time (which shows how stupid I am) that Harriet had already heard the story of Anna Williams.  And it had gained so much bulk and robustity in travelling, as such stories do in the country, that I have no doubt the poor child seemed a sort of devastating monster of iniquity.  How the country scourges those who do not walk the beaten path!  In the, careless city such a one may escape to unfamiliar streets and consort with unfamiliar people, and still find a way of life, but here in the country the eye of Society never sleeps!