with her own hands. She did not hide between her mattresses any of the useless trifles which the others misered up in a senile acquisitiveness that went even to the rubbish heap for tins, and stole cutlery from the tables, and made a hoard of moldy crusts. She did not complain of her meals. She quarreled with nobody. She sat alone, placid, white-haired, and frail; and her skin, that had evidently once been beautiful, still preserved on her old cheeks the soft whiteness of a dried peach.
When a nurse joined her on her bench under a magnolia tree, her eyelids fluttered—wakening from the blind gaze of a day-dream—but she did not turn to greet the attendant.
"Lonely?" the girl asked.
"No, miss," she said.
The nurse was a dark-haired, dark-eyed young woman with a deep voice. She had irregular features of more charm than beauty. "I 'm going to leave you next week."
"Yes, miss."
She showed no interest; and the girl explained, importantly: "I 'm going to be married."
"Yes, miss," she replied in the same tone. In a moment, she added: "When the men want you, there 's no denyin' them. It 'as to be, miss."
The girl smiled at this resigned view of her fate. "You know what it is to be married."
"Yes, miss. I 've been married twice." She kept her eyes on the empty lawn, and the nurse wondered
