Blanche Devine's face went a dull red beneath her white powder.She never came again--though we saw the minister visit her once or twice.She always accompanied him to the door pleasantly, holding it well open until he was down the little flight of steps and on the sidewalk.The minister's wife did not call.
She rose early, like the rest of us; and as summer came on we used to see her moving about in her little garden patch in the dewy, golden morning.She wore absurd pale-blue negligees that made her stout figure loom immense against the greenery of garden and apple tree.The neighborhood women viewed these negligees with Puritan disapproval as they smoothed down their own prim, starched gingham skirts.They saidit was disgusting --and perhaps it was; but the habit of years is not easily overcome.Blanche Devine--snipping her sweet peas, peering anxiously at the Virginia creeper that clung with such fragile fingers to the trellis, watering the flower baskets that hung from her porch--was blissfully unconscious of the disapproving eyes.I wish one of us had just stopped to call good morning to her over the fence, and to say in our neighborly, small-town way: "My, ain't this a scorcher! So early too! It'll be fierce by noon!"But we did not.
I think perhaps the evenings must have been the loneliest for her.The summer evenings in our little town are filled with intimate, human, neighborly sounds.After the heat of the day it is pleasant to relax in the cool comfort of the front porch, with the life of the town eddying about us.We sew and read out there until it grows dusk.We call across lots to our next- door neighbor.The men water the lawns and the flower boxes and get together in little, quiet groups to discuss the new street paving.I have even known Mrs.Hines to bring her cherries out there when she had canning to do, and pit them there on the front porch partially shielded by her porch vine, but not so effectually that she was deprived of the sights and sounds about her.The kettle in her lap and the dishpan full of great ripe cherries on the porch floor by her chair, she would pit and chat and peer out through the vines, the red juice staining her plump bare arms.
I have wondered since what Blanche Devine thought of us those lonesome evenings--those evenings filled with friendly sights and sounds.It must have been difficult for her, who had dwelt behind closed shutters so long, to seat herself on the new front porch for all the world to stare at; but she did sit there--resolutely--watching us in silence.
She seized hungrily upon the stray crumbs of conversation that fell to her.The milkman and the iceman and the butcher boy used to hold daily conversation with her.They--sociable gentlemen--would stand on her door- step, one grimy hand resting against the white of her doorpost, exchanging the time of day with Blanche in the doorway--a tea towel in one hand, perhaps, and a plate in the other.Her little house was a miracle of cleanliness.It was no uncommon sight to see her down on her kneeson the kitchen floor, wielding her brush and rag like the rest of us.In canning and preserving time there floated out from her kitchen the pungent scent of pickled crab apples; the mouth-watering smell that meant sweet pickles; or the cloying, divinely sticky odor that meant raspberry jam.Snooky, from her side of the fence, often used to peer through the pickets, gazing in the direction of the enticing smells next door.
Early one September morning there floated out from Blanche Devine's kitchen that fragrant, sweet scent of fresh-baked cookies--cookies with butter in them, and spice, and with nuts on top.Just by the smell of them your mind's eye pictured them coming from the oven-crisp brown circlets, crumbly, delectable.Snooky, in her scarlet sweater and cap, sniffed them from afar and straightway deserted her sand pile to take her stand at the fence.She peered through the restraining bars, standing on tiptoe.Blanche Devine, glancing up from her board and rolling pin, saw the eager golden head.And Snooky, with guile in her heart, raised one fat, dimpled hand above the fence and waved it friendlily.Blanche Devine waved back.Thus encouraged, Snooky's two hands wigwagged frantically above the pickets.Blanche Devine hesitated a moment, her floury hand on her hip.Then she went to the pantry shelf and took out a clean white saucer.She selected from the brown jar on the table three of the brownest, crumbliest, most perfect cookies, with a walnut meat perched atop of each, placed them temptingly on the saucer and, descending the steps, came swiftly across the grass to the triumphant Snooky.Blanche Devine held out the saucer, her lips smiling, her eyes tender.Snooky reached up with one plump white arm.
"Snooky!" shrilled a high voice."Snooky!" A voice of horror and of wrath."Come here to me this minute! And don't you dare to touch those!" Snooky hesitated rebelliously, one pink finger in her pouting mouth.
"Snooky!Do you hear me?"
And the Very Young Wife began to descend the steps of her back porch.Snooky, regretful eyes on the toothsome dainties, turned away aggrieved.The Very Young Wife, her lips set, her eyes flashing, advanced and seized the shrieking Snooky by one arm and dragged her away toward home andsafety.
Blanche Devine stood there at the fence, holding the saucer in her hand.The saucer tipped slowly, and the three cookies slipped off and fell to the grass.Blanche Devine stood staring at them a moment.Then she turned quickly, went into the house, and shut the door.
