The Gunslinger Returned for His Mother’s Funeral… What He Found Changed His Life Forever
…
It was warm.
The reality of it tore through the numbness.
Sarah Thorne was gone.
The woman who had taught him to read, who had held the farm together with sheer will and calloused hands, was beneath this dirt.
He whispered a wordless apology, the sound swallowed by the vast uncaring sky.
He stayed there until the shadows began to stretch, the sun dipping toward the western horizon, painting the sky and bruises of purple and orange.
It was only then, as he turned back toward the house, that he saw the movement.
A figure stepped out onto the porch, wiping hands on an apron.
It was not a ghost.
It was a woman, and the sight of her froze him in place.
Nathaniel’s hand instinctively drifted toward the revolver at his hip, a reflex honed by years of living in places where strangers meant danger.
But he stopped himself, his hand hovering over the leather.
The figure on the porch was motionless, watching him.
He walked slowly toward the house, the gravel crunching loudly under his boots.
As he drew closer, the details resolved, and his confusion deepened.
She was young, perhaps 25, with jet black hair pulled back into a severe, practical bun, though a few loose strands framed a face of striking, delicate beauty.
She was Chinese, her features distinct and serene.
a rare sight in this isolated corner of the territory.
But it was her dress that held his gaze.
A light pink prairie dress, the fabric patterned with tiny faded flowers, the lace collar crisp and white despite the dust of the frontier.
It was a garment of softness and civilization, looking entirely out of place against the weathered gray wood of the porch and the harsh, scrubby landscape.
She did not retreat as he approached.
She stood her ground, her posture straight, her dark eyes tracking him with an intensity that matched his own.
She held a basket of dried beans against her hip, her hands steady.
Nathaniel stopped at the foot of the porch steps, the distance between them feeling like a canyon.
He felt the grime of the road on his skin, the smell of horse sweat and old tobacco clinging to him, creating a sharp contrast to her immaculate appearance.
He cleared his throat, his voice rasping from days of disuse.
“I didn’t know anyone was here,” he said, the words rougher than he intended.
He gestured vaguely back toward the hill.
“I nodded slowly, her expression softening just a fraction, though her guard remained up.
” “I know who you are,” she said.
Her voice was calm, carrying a precise melodic cadence that cut through the thick summer air.
She said you would come eventually.
The word eventually hung between them, heavy with accusation, though her tone was not angry.
It was merely factual.
“I tried to get here sooner,” Nathaniel said, the defensive edge rising in his voice.
He stepped up onto the first step, the wood groaning under his weight.
Who are you? Why are you in her house? The woman set the basket down on a small side table near the door.
She smoothed the front of her pink dress, a gesture of composure.
My name is Mlin, she answered.
I have been here for 6 months.
I was caring for Sarah when the sickness took her.
Nathaniel felt a flush of shame burn the back of his neck.
A stranger.
A stranger had been here wiping his mother’s brow, holding her hand, boiling the water while he was 300 miles away, chasing bounties, and hiding from his own mistakes.
I I didn’t know, he stammered, the fight draining out of him.
She didn’t say in the letter that she had help.
Min watched him, her eyes searching his face for something, perhaps a resemblance, perhaps a sign of the man Sarah had described.
She did not want to worry you, Mlin said quietly.
She wanted you to come home because you wanted to, not because you were summoned by duty.
Nathaniel stepped up onto the porch, the floorboards feeling familiar beneath his feet.
He looked at the door, the brass handle worn smooth by his mother’s hand.
He was afraid to open it.
He was afraid of the silence waiting inside.
Mlin seemed to understand his hesitation.
She moved to the door and opened it for him, stepping aside to let him pass.
“The house is clean,” she said.
“I prepared the guest room.
I thought you might not want to sleep in her room.
” The consideration struck him.
It was a kindness he hadn’t earned.
He looked at her, really looked at her, seeing the fatigue hidden behind her dark eyes, the redness on her hands that spoke of hard work, scrubbing floors, washing linens, digging earth.
She was not just a decorative presence in a pink dress.
She was the one who had carried the burden he had abandoned.
“Thank you,” he said, his voice barely a whisper.
He stepped across the threshold, leaving the blinding summer light behind, entering the cool, dim sanctuary of the past.
The interior of the house smelled of beeswax, dried sage, and the faint, lingering scent of lavender water, his mother’s scent.
It was overwhelming.
Nathaniel stood in the entryway, his eyes adjusting to the gloom.
Everything was exactly as he remembered, yet entirely different because she was not there.
The grandfather’s clock ticked in the hallway, a slow, rhythmic heartbeat that emphasized the stillness.
The rug was beaten clean.
The surfaces of the heavy oak sideboard were polished to a shine.
Min had not just cared for the woman, she had cared for the home with a reverence that shamed him.
He walked into the parlor, his spurs jingling softly.
His mother’s favorite chair sat by the window, an empty throne.
On the small table beside it lay a Bible and a pair of reading glasses.
Nathaniel felt his chest tighten, a physical compression that made it hard to draw air.
He reached out and touched the arm of the chair.
It was cold.
Min followed him inside, her footsteps silent on the floorboards.
She moved to the kitchen, the sounds of her activity, the clink of a kettle, the strike of a match, drifting into the parlor.
It was a domestic rhythm that felt alien to him now.
He had spent years sleeping in bed rolls under the stars or in noisy saloons.
This quiet, purposeful domesticity was a language he had forgotten how to speak.
He wandered into the kitchen.
It was simple, tidy, the copper pots hanging in a row.
Min was at the stove pumping water into a kettle.
The light from the window caught the pink fabric of her dress, making her glow against the soot stained walls.
“I am making tea,” she said without turning around.
“You look like you need whiskey, but tea will be better for the dust in your throat.
” Nathaniel almost smiled.
It was the kind of practical, nononsense command his mother would have issued.
Tea is fine,” he said, leaning against the door frame, crossing his arms over his chest to hold himself together.
“How did you meet her?” Nathaniel asked, needing to bridge the gap to understand how this woman from a world away ended up in this dusty valley.
Min turned, the kettle in her hand.
“I was in town looking for work after after my father passed.
The general store owner said the widow Thorne needed help with the harvest canning.
I came for a week.
I stayed for the winter.
Then the cough started.
She placed the kettle on the stove.
She was a good woman, Mr. Thorne.
She spoke of you every day.
Nathaniel looked down at his boots, the leather cracked and worn.
She shouldn’t have, he muttered.
I wasn’t a good son.
Min did not contradict him.
She simply watched him with that steady, unnerving gaze.
That is not for me to judge, she said.
But she waited for you.
She held on as long as she could.
The words landed like a blow.
He turned away, unable to face her, unable to face the truth of her statement.
He walked to the window and looked out at the darkening yard.
The sun was gone now, the purple twilight settling over the land.
He was home, but he had never felt more lost.
That night, the house settled around them, a structure of timber and memory groaning as the temperature dropped.
Nathaniel sat on the edge of the narrow bed in the guest room, the mattress thin but clean.
He had stripped off his duster in his gun belt, the heavy leather holster coiling on the floor like a sleeping snake.
His body achd, the deep, boneweary ache of a man who has ridden too far and carried too much.
But sleep was a distant country.
Through the thin walls, he could hear the soft sounds of Mlin moving in the room across the hall, the rustle of fabric, the creek of a floorboard, then silence.
Her presence was a complication he hadn’t foreseen.
He had expected to mourn alone, to rage at the empty rooms, and then perhaps to sell the land and move on.
He didn’t know how to navigate this shared grief with a stranger who knew his mother’s final moments better than he did.
He thought of her in that pink dress.
It was such a specific choice.
Practical women on the frontier wore brown, gray, calico that hid the dirt.
Pink was a declaration of dignity, a refusal to let the harshness of the land strip away all color.
It reminded him of the way his mother used to plant patunias in a window box, watering them even when the well was running low.
Beauty is a discipline, she used to tell him.
It keeps the spirit from drying up.
He rubbed his face with his hands, feeling the rough stubble.
He felt like an intruder in his own history.
The house felt like it belonged to Mlin now.
She knew where the tea was kept.
She knew the rhythm of the stove.
She knew the silence.
He lay back on the pillows, staring up at the dark ceiling.
The guilt sat on his chest, a heavy, suffocating weight.
He closed his eyes, and the image of the fresh grave under the oak tree burned behind his eyelids.
He drifted into a restless sleep, haunted by the sound of a clock ticking away time he could never get back.
Morning broke with a pale, washed out light that filtered through the muslin curtains.
Nathaniel woke with a start, his hand grasping for the gun that wasn’t there before the memory of where he was crashed down on him.
He sat up, the room cool and still.
The smell of frying bacon and coffee drifted under the door, rich, savory, and aggressively alive.
It pulled him out of bed.
He washed his face in the basin, the cold water stinging his skin, and dressed quickly.
When he entered the kitchen, the table was set for two.
Min was at the stove again, wearing the same pink dress, though she had tied a crisp white apron over it.
Her hair was perfectly smooth, not a strand out of place.
It was as if she had not slept.
Or perhaps she simply possessed an energy that defied the crushing atmosphere of the funeral house.
“Sit,” she said, gesturing to the chair opposite his mother’s usual spot.
She placed a plate of eggs and bacon in front of him, followed by a steaming mug of coffee.
The food looked simple but perfect.
Nathaniel ate hungrily, realizing he hadn’t had a proper meal in days.
Min sat across from him with a cup of tea, watching him eat.
She didn’t touch her own food.
When he slowed down, she pushed a small stack of papers across the table toward him.
“These were in her desk,” she said.
“She told me to give them to you when you arrived.
” Nathaniel wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and looked at the papers.
They were ledgers bound in cracked black leather and a bundle of letters tied with twine.
He recognized his mother’s looping, precise handwriting on the envelopes.
He opened the top ledger.
The columns of numbers were neat, but the story they told was chaotic.
Red ink dominated the final pages.
Debts to the merkantile, unpaid taxes, a loan against the southern pasture.
The farm was bleeding, he looked up at Mlin, his brow furrowed.
“It’s bad,” he said.
“How was she managing?” Min took a sip of her tea, her gaze lowering to the cup.
She sold the cattle in the spring, all of them except the milk cow.
She sold the silver candlesticks.
She was selling piece by piece to keep the land.
Nathaniel felt a surge of anger, not at his mother, but at the world and at himself for not sending money, for not knowing.
Why didn’t she tell me? He demanded.
I could have sent I could have done something.
Min looked up, her eyes hard.
She didn’t want your money if it came from the work you do.
She wanted you here, Nathaniel, to work the land, not to buy it back with blood money.
The bluntness of it silenced him.
She knew his mother had told her everything.
“The water pump in the lower paddic is seized,” Min said, changing the subject abruptly, offering him an escape from the conversation he wasn’t ready to have.
The horses need water, and carrying buckets from the house is too much for one person.
It was an invitation to be useful.
Nathaniel nodded, grateful for the distraction.
“I’ll take a look at it,” he said, pushing the chair back.
He grabbed his hat from the peg by the door.
“I’ll fix it.
” It was a promise he could actually keep.
The heat outside was already rising, shimmering off the tin roof of the barn.
Nathaniel walked to the lower paddic, his toolbox heavy in his hand.
The pump was an old iron beast, rusted and stubborn.
He stripped off his shirt, the sun hitting his back, and set to work.
He dismantled the casing, his hands remembering the mechanics of it from his childhood.
Grease and rust coated his fingers.
It was honest dirt.
He worked for an hour, sweating, cursing the stubborn bolts, hammering at the seized piston.
He didn’t hear me approach until her shadow fell over him.
She was holding the picture of water in a tin cup.
She watched him work, her expression unreadable.
“Hold this,” he said, pointing to the wrench as he realigned the gasket.
She didn’t hesitate.
She set the water down, knelt in the dirt, her pink dress pooling around her, and gripped the wrench with surprising strength.
“On three,” he said.
One, two, three.
They pulled together, the metal screeching in protest before finally giving way with a sharp crack.
The piston slid free.
Nathaniel laughed, a short, breathless sound of victory.
He looked at me.
She had a smudge of grease on her cheek right near her eye, but she was smiling.
It was the first time he had seen her smile.
It transformed her face, making her look younger, less burdened.
“You have good hands,” he said, wiping his brow.
“For a nurse.
” Min wiped her hands on her apron.
“I grew up on a farm before the railroad took it,” she said simply.
“I know how to work.
” They reassembled the pump in silence, a comfortable working silence that felt different from the tension of the house.
When Nathaniel primed the handle, clear, cold water gushed out into the trough.
The sound was like music.
He splashed the water over his face and neck, washing away the sweat and the frustration.
When he straightened up, dripping wet, Mlin was handing him the tin cup filled with water from the pitcher.
He took it, their fingers brushing for a second.
Her skin was cool.
“Thank you,” he said.
She nodded, picking up the picture.
“Lunch will be ready at noon,” she said, turning back toward the house.
Nathaniel watched her walk away, the pink dress swaying with her steps.
She was a mystery, a contradiction, fragile in appearance, steel underneath.
And for the first time since he had ridden over that ridge, he felt a flicker of something that wasn’t grief.
He felt a reason to stay, at least for a little while.
The land was broken, the debts were high, but the water was running again.
It was a start.
The weeks that followed the repair of the pump bled into a rhythm that Nathaniel had not known since he was a boy, a cadence dictated not by the sudden violence of a gunshot, but by the slow, relentless arc of the sun.
The farm demanded everything they had, and in the shared exhaustion of the evenings, the distance between the gunslinger and the woman in the pink dress began to close.
They worked side by side in the vegetable garden, pulling weeds that had choked the rose during Sarah’s final illness.
Nathaniel stripped to his undershirt, his skin browning in the sun, while Mlin wore a widebrim straw hat she had found in the barn, pinning her skirts up to keep them from the dirt.
There was an intimacy in the labor, a silent conversation held in the passing of a hoe or the sharing of a water skin.
One evening, as the heat finally broke, and the crickets began their nightly chorus, they sat on the porch steps, watching the fireflies dance over the tall grass.
Nathaniel rolled a cigarette, his hands rough and scarred, while Mlin mended a tear in his work shirt.
The silence between them was no longer heavy with suspicion.
It was comfortable, settled.
“You never told me why you stayed,” Nathaniel said, the smoke drifting lazily into the darkness.
“After she died.
” “You could have taken the wagon and left.
No one would have blamed you.
” Min didn’t look up from her stitching, the needle flashing in the dim light.
I had nowhere to go that felt like this,” she answered softly.
“Your mother gave me a home when the town only saw a foreigner.
To leave would have been to abandon the only place that treated me with dignity.
” “Besides,” she paused, biting the thread.
“I knew you were coming.
Someone had to keep the lights on.
” The admission hung in the air, a testament to a loyalty he hadn’t earned, but was now the beneficiary of.
It was in that moment, under the vast canopy of stars, that Nathaniel realized the ache in his chest was no longer just grief.
It was the terrifying hope that he might actually belong here again.
But the piece was fragile, a thin pane of glass waiting to shatter.
Two days later, a buggy came up the drive, kicking up a plume of dust that signaled the arrival of the outside world.
The man who stepped out of the buggy was not a threat in the way Nathaniel was used to.
He carried no holster, and his hands were soft, pale, and stained with ink rather than gunpowder.
He was the town banker, a man named Thatcher, dressed in a suit that was too heavy for the season, and sweating profusely as he adjusted his spectacles.
Nathaniel met him at the gate, his hand resting instinctively near his hip, though he wore no gun.
Min stood on the porch, wiping her hands on her apron, her face tightening with recognition.
Thatcher didn’t waste time with pleasantries.
He opened a leather portfolio and produced a document stamped with the seal of the territory.
“Mr. Thorne,” he said, his voice oily and deficious, “I offer my condolences on your mother’s passing.
She was a stubborn woman.
Nathaniel stared at him, his eyes narrowing.
State your business, he growled.
Thatcher cleared his throat, holding the paper out like a shield.
The mortgage on this property is 6 months in a rears.
The bank has been patient out of respect for the widow, but with her passing, the grace period is over.
The note is called due.
You have 30 days to pay the balance in full or the property will be seized and auctioned.
The words hit Nathaniel like a physical blow.
30 days.
The sum written on the paper was astronomical, more than the harvest would bring in 5 years.
This land has been in my family for three generations, Nathaniel said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper.
You aren’t taking it.
Thatcher smirked, a small, dismissive twitch of his lips.
The law is the law, Mr. Thorne.
Unless you have a hidden fortune from your travels, I suggest you start packing.
He turned to leave, dismissing Nathaniel as if he were nothing more than a squatter.
Nathaniel’s hand twitched, the rage flaring white hot.
He took a step forward, his intention clear.
Violence was the only currency he knew how to spend.
But before he could move, a hand grasped his forearm.
It was Mlin.
Her grip was iron strong, her fingers digging into his muscle.
No, she hissed, her voice low and urgent.
Not like that.
If you hurt him, we lose everything today.
Don’t prove them right about you.
Nathaniel froze, the adrenaline trembling in his limbs.
He looked at her, seeing the fear and the defiance in her eyes.
She was right.
He watched That Thatcher climb back into his buggy and ride away, leaving them standing in the dust of a future that was rapidly collapsing.
The days that followed were a crucible of tension, the ticking clock of the foreclosure hanging over the homestead like a storm cloud that refused to break.
Nathaniel paced the floorboards at night.
The silence of the house amplified by his own impotence.
He had money stashed away, bounty money, blood money, hidden in a saddle bag under his bed.
It was enough to cover half the debt, perhaps buy them a few months.
But every time he reached for it, he heard Mlin’s voice echoing his mother’s wish to work the land, not buy it back with blood.
The conflict tore at him.
He was a man of action, used to solving problems with force.
Yet here he was, paralyzed by morality.
The breaking point came a week before the deadline.
A summer storm, violent and sudden, swept through the valley.
It wasn’t the rain that did the damage.
It was the hail.
Stones the size of robin’s eggs that battered the roof and shredded the leaves of the vegetable garden they had tended so carefully.
When the storm passed, the garden was a ruin of bruised stalks and mud.
Nathaniel stood on the back porch looking at the destruction and felt something snap.
He turned and walked into the house, heading straight for the bedroom to retrieve his gun belt.
He would ride to town.
He would force Thatcher to extend the loan.
He would do what he had always done.
But when he came out strapping the holster to his leg, Min was blocking the door.
She was wearing the pink dress now stained with mud from trying to cover the plants during the storm.
But she looked like a queen.
“Where are you going?” she asked, her voice steady.
“To fix this,” Nathaniel said, his eyes cold.
“Move, May.
” She didn’t flinch.
“You go out that door with that gun and you are not fixing anything.
You are just ending it.
You will be a killer again, and this house will be empty.
” Nathaniel stopped, his hand on the latch.
We have nothing left to sell, May.
The garden is gone.
The money I have is dirty, but it spins.
Why is your pride worth more than this roof? Min stepped closer, her eyes blazing.
It is not pride.
It is the difference between a home and a hideout.
If you save this place with violence, it will never be yours.
It will just be another place you are hiding in.
She reached out and touched the buckle of his gun belt.
There is another way.
The town council meets tomorrow.
We go to them.
We ask for a stay based on the storm damage.
We ask neighbors, not as outlaws.
Nathaniel looked down at her hand, then back at her face.
The ferocity of her belief in him, in the man he could be, not the man he was, disarmed him more effectively than any sheriff.
Slowly, he unbuckled the belt and let it fall to the floor with a heavy thud.
“They won’t listen to me,” he said, his voice breaking.
“Then let them listen to us,” she replied.
The town hall was packed, the air thick with the smell of damp wool and tobacco smoke.
The storm had damaged more than just the Thorn Farm.
Half the valley was hurting, and the mood was sour.
When Nathaniel and Mlin walked in, the room went quiet.
He felt the weight of a hundred eyes, judgmental, curious, fearful.
He was the prodigal son who had returned with a dark reputation.
She was the outsider who had taken his mother’s place.
They stood together at the back until the council chairman, a gray-bearded man named Miller, called for new business.
Nathaniel walked to the front, Mlin a step behind him.
He didn’t wear his hat.
He stood exposed, his hands clasped behind his back to hide their trembling.
“I’m asking for an extension on the thorn note,” he said, his voice raspy but projecting to the back of the room.
Thatcher sitting in the front row laughed dryly.
“On what grounds?” “The bank is not a charity, Mr. Thorne.
” Nathaniel took a breath.
On the grounds that the storm took the crop, but the land is still good.
On the grounds that my mother walked into this town for 30 years and helped deliver half the children in this room.
He looked around the crowd, meeting the eyes of men he had known as boys.
I know I haven’t been here.
I know I left her.
I carry that.
But I am here now.
I am staying.
I am asking for the time to work the debt off.
Not with money I took, but with money I earn.
The room murmured.
Thatcher stood up, his face red.
This man is a gunman, a drifter.
He offers you sentiment while the bank offers stability.
It was Mlin who spoke.
Then she stepped forward, her voice ringing out with that clear, melodic cadence.
He is not a drifter.
He fixed the community pump when he arrived.
He rebuilt the fence that borders the creek.
so the Miller cattle wouldn’t stray.
He is a man who honors his mother’s memory by sweating for it.
She looked at the women in the room.
You know Sarah Thorne, you know she would not have waited for a man who was lost.
The silence that followed was profound.
Then old Mr. Miller slammed his gavl.
“The council cannot dictate bank policy,” he said slowly.
But we can dictate community funds.
The emergency relief fund is for storm victims.
I propose we use a portion to pay the interest on the thorn note for three months.
That buys you until harvest, son.
After that, you’re on your own.
A hand went up, then another.
The vote was not unanimous, but it was enough.
Thatcher stormed out, his portfolio tucked under his arm.
Nathaniel looked at Mlin and for the first time in his life he felt the solid ground of a victory that didn’t require a bullet.
The wedding was small, held on the front porch in the golden light of early autumn.
There was no minister, just the justice of the peace and a handful of neighbors who had come to respect the quiet determination of the couple on the hill.
Min wore her pink dress, now washed and pressed so that it looked new, and she held a bouquet of late blooming aers.
Nathaniel wore his father’s dark suit, which was tight in the shoulders, but commanded a somber respect.
When he took her hand to say the vows, his palms were calloused and warm.
He didn’t promise her riches.
He promised her his stillness, his labor, and his presence.
I will not leave,” he said.
And the words were a vow, not just to her, but to the land and the ghosts that walked it.
The celebration was modest, cider and spiced cake.
But the laughter that drifted up from the porch was a sound the house had been starving for.
As the guests left, driving their wagons down the lane, the first crisp edge of winter was in the air.
The seasons turned with a relentless indifference to human joy, but now the turning felt like a promise rather than a threat.
Winter came hard that year, burying the valley in snow that drifted up to the window sills.
They spent the long months inside, the fire roaring in the hearth.
Nathaniel taught Min how to shoot, not for killing men, but for protecting the livestock from wolves.
She taught him how to balance the books, her mind sharper than his with numbers.
They read to each other from his mother’s collection, their voices weaving together in the quiet dark.
It was a hibernation, a gestation.
When spring finally broke the back of the frost, the melting snow revealed the black earth, ready and waiting.
Years dissolved into the rhythm of the seasons, a montage of labor and slow, steady growth.
The debt was paid, not all at once, but dollar by painful dollar, earned through cattle drives, timber hauling, and the bountiful harvest that followed the lean years.
The house changed.
The gray wood was painted a clean bright white, and a new wing was added when their son was born.
They named him after no one, giving him a name that was entirely his own, a fresh start.
Nathaniel watched the boy grow, seeing his own dark hair in Meen’s eyes.
A living testament to the union of two worlds.
The gunslinger faded into the farmer.
The calluses on his hands changed from the friction of rains and pistol grips to the deep permanent grooves of the plow handle.
He grew older, the silver creeping into his temples, his movement stiffening with the damp of the winters.
Yet the restlessness that had once driven him across the territories was gone, replaced by a deep anchoring route.
One evening, 20 years after he had first ridden down that ridge, Nathaniel walked up the hill to the oak tree.
There were two graves now, his mother’s and a smaller stone for a child they had lost one hard winter, a grief they had carried together until it became part of the landscape.
He stood there leaning on a cane he had carved himself.
The sun was setting, casting the same bruised purple light over the valley that he remembered from his return.
He looked down at the homestead.
The barn was straight.
The fences were tight.
Smoke curled from the chimney where Mlin was preparing supper.
He could hear the faint sound of his son laughing with his own children in the yard.
Nathaniel reached into his pocket and pulled out a small rusted object.
It was the cylinder of his old revolver.
The rest of the gun long since dismantled and buried in the foundation of the new barn.
He turned it over in his fingers.
Feeling the weight of a life he had shed.
He placed it on the top of the fence post, a relic of a dead man.
He turned back toward the house, the light from the kitchen window spilling out onto the porch.
A beacon, a promise, a home.
He began the slow walk down the hill, not toward an end, but toward supper.
