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Jane Field
A Novel

By
Mary E. Wilkins

Author of "A Humble Romance, and other stories"
"A New England Nun, and other stories"
"Young Lucretia, and other stories"

Illustrated

New York
Harper & Brothers Publishers

Chapter I

Amanda Pratt's cottage-house was raised upon two banks above theroad-level. Here and there the banks showed irregular patches ofyellow-green, where a little milky-stemmed plant grew. It had come upevery spring since Amanda could remember.

There was a great pink-lined shell on each side of the frontdoor-step, and the path down over the banks to the road was borderedwith smaller shells. The house was white, and the front door was darkgreen, with an old-fashioned knocker in the centre.

There were four front windows, and the roof sloped down to them;two were in Amanda's parlor, and two were in Mrs. Field's. She rentedhalf of her house to Mrs. Jane Field.

There was a head at each of Amanda's front windows. One was hers,the other was Mrs. Babcock's. Amanda's old blond face, with its foldsof yellow-gray hair over the ears and sections of thesoftly-wrinkled, pinky cheeks, was bent over some needle-work. So wasMrs. Babcock's, darkly dim with age, as if the hearth-fires of herlife had always smoked, with a loose flabbiness about the jaw-bones,which seemed to make more evident the firm structure underneath.

Amanda was sewing a braided rug; her little veiny hands jerked thestout thread through with a nervous energy that was out of accordwith her calm expression and the droop of her long slender body.

“It's pretty hard sewin' braided mats, ain't it?” saidMrs. Babcock.

“I don't care how hard 'tis if I can get 'em sewedstrong,” replied Amanda, and her voice was unexpectedly quickand decided. “I never had any feelin' that anything was hard,if I could only do it.”

“Well, you ain't had so much hard work to do as some folks.Settin' in a rockin'-chair sewin' braided mats ain't like doin' thehousework for a whole family. If you'd had the cookin' to do for fourmen-folks, the way I have, you'd felt it was pretty hard work, evenif you did make out to fill 'em up.” Mrs. Babcock smiled, andshowed that she did not forget she was company, but her tone wasquite fierce.

“Mebbe I should,” returned Amanda, stiffly.

There was a silence.

“Let me see, how many mats does that make?” Mrs.Babcock asked, finally, in an amiable voice.

“Like this one?”

“Yes.”

“This makes the ninth.”

Mrs. Babcock scrutinized the floor. It was almost covered withbraided rugs, and they were all alike.

“I declare I don't see where you'll put another inhere,” said she.

“I guess I can lay 'em a little thicker over there by thewhat-not.”

“Well, mebbe you can; but I declare I shouldn't scarcelythink you needed another. I shouldn't think your carpet would wearout till the day of judgment. What made you have them mats all jestalike?”

“I like 'em better so,” replied Amanda, withdignity.

“Well, of course, if you do there ain't nothin' to say; it'syour carpet an' your mats,” returned Mrs. Babcock, with grimapology.

There were two curious features about Amanda Pratt's parlor: onewas a gentle monotony of details; the other, a certain savor of thesea. It was like holding a shell to one's ear to enter Amanda's