A BELATED HONEYMOON
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 i
