The Eighth Day by Thornton Wilder

cookies. She sold them in the Tavern’s lobby during holidays. She made savings, too, following Mrs. Whittimore’s example. On slaughtering days she dragged her little wagon three miles down the road to the Bell Farm (Roger had hoed and hayed and milked there during his summer vacations) and returned with hog fat. She made soap from it which her mother freshened with lavender. She continued her own yeast. The stove was lit from flint and steel. Penny-pinching is anything but dull. She confronted the tradesmen without shyness. The pitying indulgence toward her began to be replaced by a surprised respect. Men greeted her cordially; a few women began to return her greetings with a curt nod. Her former schoolmates whispered and giggled when she passed. Boys jeered, “Rags, bottles, and sacks, Sophie. Y’want to buy any rags, bottles, and sacks?”
    Some odd things happened.
    One day, a week after “The Elms” had announced that it offered rooms and board, Eustacia Lansing, dressed in the deep mourning that so became her, called at Porky’s shoe-repair store. She chose the hour of two o’clock when the streets of Coaltown are almost deserted. There was a matter of resoling one of Félicité’s shoes. As she prepared to leave she said: “Porky, you see the Ashleys from time to time, don’t you?”
    â€œOnce in a while I do.”
    â€œIs it true they’re opening a boardinghouse?”
    â€œPeople say that.”
    â€œPorky, you can keep a secret, I’m sure. I think you’ll do something for me and keep it secret.”
    Porky’s face remained impassive.
    â€œI want you to call at my house for a large parcel and I want you to leave it at the back door of the Ashley house without anybody knowing anything about it. The parcel contains a dozen sheets and pillow cases and a dozen towels. Could you find time to do that, Porky?”
    â€œYes, ma’am.”
    â€œCan you pick it up just after dark? It will be behind my front gate.”
    â€œYes, ma’am.”
    â€œThank you, Porky. Just put this card on the parcel.”
    On the card was written, “From a well-wisher.”
    One day Miss Doubkov, the town’s dressmaker, called on Porky with a troublesome shoe.
    â€œPorky, you know the Ashleys, don’t you?”
    â€œYes, ma’am.”
    â€œI have two chairs I don’t need. Could you pick them up at my door tonight and leave them at their back door?”
    â€œYes, ma’am.”
    â€œAnd no one’s to know, Porky, except you and me.”
    During these early weeks a rocking chair was found within the picket fence; three blankets, not new but clean and neatly mended; a large cardboard box containing all sizes of spoons, knives, and forks with cups and saucers and a soup tureen—from the women of the Methodist Church, perhaps.
    Young traveling men seldom applied for admission at “The Elms.” They could not afford it. They spent the night in a large drafty dormitory on the top floor at the Tavern—twenty-five cents a night. Nevertheless, Mrs. Ashley had turned a number away. There were growing daughters in the house and the town was malicious. One afternoon in January she relaxed her rule and admitted a man of about thirty carrying a grip and a suitcase of samples. At nine-thirty Beata Ashley banked the furnace, locked the front and back doors, and put out the lights. Toward two in the morning she was awakened by the smell of smoke. She roused her daughters and the mathematics teacher. They descended the stairs and traced the smoke to the kitchen. The teacher hurried on before them, crossed the room coughing, and opened the back door. Thick oddly smelling smoke was issuing from the oven, in which lay a mass of smoldering pink paper. The fire was easily extinguished. The women made themselves some hot cocoa and waited for the air to clear. When Mrs. Ashley returned to her room she found that it had