Part II, Chapter 3: "A Jury of Her Peers" by Susan Glaspell

He was to a dot the kind of man who could get himself elected sheriff—a heavy man with a big voice, who was particularly genial with the law-abiding, as if to make it plain that he knew the difference between criminals and non-criminals.

Harry was going to ask her more questions, but I said maybe that weren't our business; maybe we ought to let her tell her story first to the coroner or the sheriff.

The county attorney was looking at the cupboard—a peculiar, ungainly structure, half closet and half cupboard, the upper part of it being built in the wall, and the lower part just the old-fashioned kitchen cupboard.

"Here's a nice mess," he said resentfully.

"Oh, well," said Mrs. Hale's husband, with good-natured superiority, "women are used to worrying over trifles."

Then, as if releasing herself from something strange, Mrs. Hale began to arrange the dirty pans under the sink, which the county attorney's disdainful push of the foot had deranged.

Then, as if releasing herself from something strange, Mrs. Hale began to arrange the dirty pans under the sink, which the county attorney's disdainful push of the foot had deranged.

"I'd hate to have men comin' into my kitchen," she said testily—"snoopin' round and criticizin'."

"Of course it's no more than their duty," said the sheriff's wife, in her manner of timid acquiescence.

"Duty's all right," replied Mrs. Hale bluffly; "but I guess that deputy sheriff that come out to make the fire might have got a little of this on."

They were soon back—the stark coldness of that shut-up room was not a thing to linger in.

"Well, I don't think she did," affirmed Mrs. Hale stoutly.

"That's just what Mr. Hale said," said Mrs. Hale, in a resolutely natural voice.

Mrs. Peter's back turned, Martha Hale now scrutinized that piece, compared it with the dainty, accurate sewing of the other blocks.

Again their eyes met—startled, questioning, apprehensive.

Then Mrs. Hale, turning away, said brusquely: "If they're going to find any evidence, I wish they'd be about it. I don't like this place."

"Well, you mustn't reproach yourself," counseled Mrs. Peters.

"Not to know him. I've seen him in town. They say he was a good man."
"Yes—good," conceded John Wright's neighbor grimly.

Suddenly she leaned forward, looking intently at the cage.

"What a pretty box! I'll warrant that was something she had a long time ago—when she was a girl."

"There's something wrapped up in this piece of silk," faltered Mrs. Hale.

"No, Peters," said the county attorney incisively; "it's all perfectly clear, except the reason for doing it. But you know juries when it comes to women. If there was some definite thing—something to show. Something to make a story about. A thing that would connect up with this clumsy way of doing it."

In a covert way Mrs. Hale looked at Mrs. Peters.

There was a moment when they held each other in a steady, burning look in which there was no evasion nor flinching.

"Well, Henry," said the county attorney facetiously, "at least we found out that she was not going to quilt it. She was going to—what is it you call it, ladies?"