If she left her house for any errand, (locks were but seldom used in
Innisfield,) she would often on her return find a leg of mutton, a basket
of apples or potatoes, or a sack of flour, conveyed there by some unknown
hands. In winter nights she would hear the voices of Ralph Hardwick, the
village blacksmith, and his boys, as they drew sled-loads of wood, ready
cut and split, to keep up her kitchen fire. Other friends ploughed and
planted her garden, and performed numberless kind offices. But, though
aided in this way by charity, Mrs. Branning never lost her self-respect
nor her standing in the neighborhood.
Everybody knew that she was poor, and she knew that everybody knew it; yet
so long as she was not in absolute want, and the poor-house, that bugbear
of honest poverty, was yet far distant, she managed to keep a cheerful
heart, and visited her neighbors on terms of entire equality.
At this period Walter Kinloch's wife died, leaving an only child. During
her sickness, Mrs. Branning had been sent for to act as nurse and
temporary house-keeper, and, at the urgent request of the widower,
remained for a time after the funeral. Weeks passed, and her house was
still tenantless. Mildred had become so much attached to the motherly
widow and her son, that she would not allow the servants to do anything
for her.
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