ou a name yet?' she asked, as we rose from the table,
giving her head a jerk as she spoke in the direction of the little
pantry, in which I gathered there was a revolving hatch communicating
with the dining-room.

'Well, he called me "Nickperry,"' I said, 'or "Peripatacious Nick."'

'Ah! Yes, that sounds like one of his,' she said, apparently weighing
the name and myself, not without approval. 'There's nothing nor nobody
he hasn't got some name for. He don't miscall me to me face, for I'd
allow no person to do such. But in speakin' to Missis, I've heard him
refer to me with some such nonsensical words as "Gabbitular" and
"Gabbitaceous," or some such rubbish, although no one wouldn't ever
think such a thing of me--nobody but him, that is. But he means no
harm, y'know. There's no more vice in the man than--than in Bella
there.'

She pointed with a wooden spoon toward the open window, through which
we could see the red cow, still contentedly chewing over the memories
of her last meal.

'No, there's no harm in him, or you may be sure I wouldn't be here;
but he's a great character, is Mr. Perkins; a regler case, he is, an'
no mistake. Well, this won't get my kitchen cleaned up--and Sunday
morning, too! You might take out that bucket of ashes for me. You'll
find the heap where they go down in the little yard behind the stable.
There now! That's what comes o' talkin'! If I didden forget to ask a
blessin', an' you an orphan, too, I believe! F'what we've received.
Lor', make us truly thangful cry-say-carmen--Off you go!'

Her eyes were screwed tightly shut while the words of the gabbled
invocation passed her lips, and opened widely as, with its last
mysterious syllables, she dropped the wooden spoon she had been
holding and turned to her fire. The fire was always 'my' fire to
worthy Mrs. Gabbitas. So was the kitchen, for that matter, the
scullery, the pantry, and all the things that therein were. Indeed,
she frequently spoke of 'my' dining-room table, bedrooms, silver,
front hall, windows, and the like. Even the meals served to Mr. and
Mrs. Perkins were, until eaten, 'my dining-room breakfast,' 'my
dining-room tea,' and so forth.

On my way back from the ash-heap with Mrs. Gabbitas's bucket, I almost
collided with Mr. Perkins, as he rolled swiftly and silently into view
from round the end of the rustic pergola, between the house yard and
the big cedar.

'Aha! The Peripatacious one! Tssp! Yes. Mrs. Perkins wants a word w