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softly out of respect for the sadness of the story. She said it was something he never talked about to anyone. Reverend Boughton, of course, but no one else. “He forgets things, like he did the supper tonight,” she said. “He’s always been that way.”
    If she stayed in Gilead, she could earn some money. She could buy some things at the store. Soap, and thread, and a box of salt. She could be in out of the weather when she wanted. All they asked her to do was a little gardening, a little washing and ironing, and she could do those things as well as anybody. So it wasn’t really charity. They didn’t bother her with talk. They gave her Sundays to herself. If she left she had nowhere to go especially, except not St. Louis. She decided she might as well stay for a while, putting a little aside to make things easier when she changed her mind. It was one of those Sundays, after church, that she thought to walk up to the cemetery. She found the wife and child there, sure enough. The grass was mowed, but nobody had thought to prune the roses.
    He had given a sermon, “‘Let your light shine before men; that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father who is in heaven.’” He said it meant that when you did a good thing it should seem to come from God, not from you. It should not feel to other people like your goodness, and it should not feel that way to you, either. Any good thing is less good the more any human being lays claim to it. She thought, All right, that’s why he told these other people to help me out. That’s why he can’t look at me. You’d think he was ashamed of something. Ever since that morning I went to his house and he could see well enough I was on hard times, he’s hardly said a word to me. Well, that’s all fine, except it don’t seem honest. I spose he wants me to think it’s God been putting money in my pocket, when it’s just him. It might even be his money they been paying me with. Church money. Doane said they did things in churches to make people believe what they told them.
    That was the day she walked out with a pew Bible. They would have been so happy to give her one that she couldn’t bear the thought. They’d take it wrong. She wasn’t getting religion, she just wanted to know what he was talking about. For her own reasons. And someday, when she had decided to leave, she’d probably bring it back. It made her feel better to be interested in something. That much less time for the thoughts that worried her.
    But she wanted him to know she wasn’t such a fool as he might have thought she was. Since he did seem to think about her. So she began tending that grave. There was writing on it. We wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief. Must be from the Bible. Let’s see if he thinks it was God who scraped the moss off the headstone and put the ivy there. Who cut back the yew shrubs so some light could get through. Who would make the roses bloom. And she had noticed that the garden behind his house was running to weeds, so she began tending that, too. Once, he found her working there—looking after her potato plants, though he didn’t seem to notice. Picking the beetles off and dropping them in a tin can. He said, “You have done so much. It looks wonderful. I would like to give you something for it.” He had his wallet in one hand, his hat in the other.
    She said, “I owe you a kindness.”
    “No,” he said. “No. You certainly don’t owe me anything.”
    “I best decide that,” she said.
    “Yes. Well, if there is ever—anything at all. That you need— If you ever want to talk again, I might do better this time.” He shrugged. “I can’t promise, but I’ll try.”
    She said, “I ain’t making any promises,” and he laughed. Then she said, “I’m thinking about it. Thank you.” He was a beautiful old man. His brow was heavy, but his eyes were kind. Why should he care what she thought, whether she stayed or left, what became of her? She