“I had been thinking that there was enough left of the roast to make hash-balls for dinner”—­“hash-balls” is Ev’leen Ann’s decent Anglo-Saxon name for croquette—­“and maybe you’d like a rhubarb pie.”

I knew well enough she had been thinking of no such thing, but I could as easily have slapped a reigning sovereign on the back as broken in on the regal reserve of Ev’leen Ann in her clean gingham.

“Well, yes, Ev’leen Ann,” I answered in her own tone of reasonable consideration of the matter; “that would be nice, and your pie-crust is so flaky that even Mr. Horace will have to be pleased.”

“Mr. Horace” is our title for the sardonic cousin whose carping ways are half a joke, and half a menace in our family.

Ev’leen Ann could not manage the smile which should have greeted this sally.  She looked down soberly at the white-pine top of the kitchen table and said, “I guess there is enough sparrow-grass up in the garden for a mess, too, if you’d like that.”

“That would taste very good,” I agreed, my heart aching for her.

“And creamed potatoes,” she finished bravely, thrusting my unspoken pity from her.

“You know I like creamed potatoes better than any other kind,” I concurred.

There was a silence.  It seemed inhuman to go and leave the stricken young thing to fight her trouble alone in the ugly prison, her work-place, though I thought I could guess why Ev’leen Ann had shut the doors so tightly.  I hung near her, searching my head for something to say, but she helped me by no casual remark.  Niram is not the only one of our people who possesses so the full the supreme gift of silence.  Finally I mentioned the report of a case of measles in the village, and Ev’leen Ann responded in kind with the news that her Aunt Emma had bought a potato-planter.  Ev’leen Ann is an orphan, brought up by a well-to-do spinster aunt, who is strong-minded and runs her own farm.  After a time we glided by way of similar transitions to the mention of his name.

“’Niram Purdon tells me his stepmother is no better,” I said.  “Isn’t it too bad?” I thought it well for Ev’leen Ann to be dragged out of her black cave of silence once in a while, even if it could be done only by force.  As she made no answer, I went on.  “Everybody who knows Niram thinks it splendid of him to do so much for his stepmother.”

Ev’leen Ann responded with a detached air, as though speaking of a matter in China:  “Well, it ain’t any more than what he should.  She was awful good to him when he was little and his father got so sick.  I guess ’Niram wouldn’t ha’ had much to eat if she hadn’t ha’ gone out sewing to earn it for him and Mr. Purdon.”  She added firmly, after a moment’s pause, “No, ma’am, I don’t guess it’s any more than what ’Niram had ought to do.”

“But it’s very hard on a young man to feel that he’s not able to marry,” I continued.  Once in a great while we came so near the matter as this.  Ev’leen Ann made no answer.  Her face took on a pinched look of sickness.  She set her lips as though she would never speak again.  But I knew that a criticism of ’Niram would always rouse her, and said:  “And really, I think ’Niram makes a great mistake to act as he does.  A wife would be a help to him.  She could take care of Mrs. Purdon and keep the house.”