MANDY. 303 



and fork, from a little shelf over the stove. It did not 

 take her long to pass over a couple of mealy potatoes, 

 "early roses with their jackets on," Carey called them, 

 a strip of pork as broad as your hand, fried in its own 

 grease, and a slice of bread at least an inch thick. I 

 tell you, it tasted good, and as a baker of bread, let me 

 tell you now for fear I may forget it, Mandy was a 

 success. I could see Carey was proud of her, and 

 while there would have been no prizes coming her 

 way at a beauty show, she had that wholesome, tidy 

 look that is stamped on every genuine home-maker. 

 None of this "I'm so sorry I am not dressed and have 

 not a little cake or pie for you," not a bit of it, but 

 plenty of that whole-hearted welcome which says 

 plainer than words, "this is our home and we are 

 proud of it. This is what we live on. It is good 

 enough for us. It is the best we have, and we know 

 it is good enough for you." Mandy, I lift my hat to 

 your memory. It is true that her home was only a 

 cabin of one room with the stove at one end and a 

 bed at the other, but everything in it was as neat as a 

 pin and you could, as the old saying goes, have eaten 

 your dinner off the floor without getting any specks 

 in it. Mandy called her husband Carey. So did 

 everyone that knew him, and, so far as I knew, he had 

 no other name. 



After dinner the pipes were lit and the smile of 

 contentment on Carey's face showed that he had 

 nothing to bother him. As Mandy stepped out to the 

 spring for a bucket of water, Carey reached over and 

 with a wink, poking me in the ribs said, "Isn't she a 

 darling?" When I nodded, Carey continued: "Dum 

 if I know why she ever had me. I hadn't the courage 



