He said, “What’s your news then?”

“No news. Just something I got to tell you.”

He waited, then nodded.

“I hate it,” she said. “Hate telling on myself. Hate that I have to. Oh boy, I hate it like hellfire. Me and my big pride. Honest Prudence. Prudent Prudence. So much pride, pride like my big fat foot in my mouth. And that’s what happens, isn’t it. You always get found out. Little thing like a nettle gets under your skin and just stays there, burning away at you. Like a botfly dug in and festering up till the worm crawls out.”

“Honey.” He interrupted her. “I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, I know it. See? Here I am, so brave, talking stupid circles.”

“Why don’t you just sit and tell it. Get it over with.”

She drew herself to. “I’ll stand. I’m not proud of this.”

“I can see that.” He lifted his pipe and deployed tobacco smoke to signal he held no prejudgment and was inclined to forgiveness. He was curious now, almost wondering if her design was to draw him forth. And if she intended this, how he’d respond.

She said, “When Mother caved for me to get that Scupper dog; that was—when—five years ago, six, the spring. You recall what a big rough clumsy fool puppy he was. All over everything. Couldn’t stand next to a person without treading on top of their feet. Like he didn’t know his own size. And lord knows he’s still the same way but he’s grown up some. And Mother laying down the law about his staying in the woodshed, I guess that helped him some. Although maybe its just his getting smarter, older. And to tell the truth, long as I’m confessing, there’s been many a night I’ve slipped down to lead him up quiet to sleep with me. I always knew when he felt too left out of things. Or maybe even it was just when I needed him more than other times. But I always got him out before daylight. He’s a good dog, all I’d ever ask for in one. And I think I know my animals.