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Book, page 121 / 171 The haze of a warm September day hung low over the house, the garden, and the dust-white road. On the side veranda a gray-haired, erect little figure sat knitting. After a time the needles began to move more and more slowly until at last they lay idle in the motionless, withered fingers. "Well, well, Abby, takin' a nap?" demanded a thin-chested, wiry old man coming around the corner of the house and seating himself on the veranda steps. The little old woman gave a guilty start and began to knit vigorously. "Dear me, no, Hezekiah. I was thinkin'." She hesitated a moment, then added, a little feverishly: "--it's ever so much cooler here than up ter the fair grounds now, ain't it, Hezekiah?" The old man threw a sharp look at her face. "Hm-m, yes," he said. "Mebbe 't is." From far down the road came the clang of a bell. As by common consent the old man and his wife got to their feet and hurried to the front of the house where they could best see the trolley-car as it rounded a curve and crossed the road at right angles. "Goes slick, don't it?" murmured the man. There was no answer. The woman's eyes were hungrily devouring the last glimpse of paint and polish. "An' we hain't been on 'em 't all yet, have we, Abby?" he continued. She drew a long breath. "Well, ye see, I--I hain't had time, Hezekiah," she rejoined apologetically. "Humph!" muttered the old man as they turned and walked back to their seats.
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