epared on the text I picked out for him. He
had as good as preached it to me, and it was a powerful one, a warnin'
to the ungodly not to be took unawares. I advised him to p'int it that
way. Then, Jim Woodworth's Mary is leavin' the choir to marry and go
west, and I jest won't have Palmyra Stockly sing 'Cool Siloam' over me.
I can settle that right now, for I couldn't abide the way she acted
about that church fair--and she sings through her nose anyway.
An-ndrew!"

"Yes, Marthy."

"You oughtn't to go walkin' off when a body is talkin' to you. You allus
do that."

"I c'n hear you, Marthy. I'm jest in the kitchen. I thought the dinner
had b'iled dry."

"Are you gittin' a b'iled dinner? It smells wonderful good. What you got
in it?"

"Corned beef and cabbage and onions and potatoes and turnips. I've het
up a squash pie and put out some of the cider apple sauce that will
spile if it isn't et pretty soon. I'll put the tea a-drawin' soon's the
kittle b'iles."

Andrew's voice came into the sick room in a mechanical recitative, as if
accustomed to recount every particular of the day's doings.

"Well, I guess you can bring me some of it. You bring me a piece of the
corned beef and consid'able of the cabbage and potaters and an onion or
two. And if that cider apple sauce is likely to spile, I might eat a
little of it; bring me a cooky to eat with it. And a piece of the squash
pie. What else did you say you had?"

"That's all."

"Don't forgit to put on consid'able of bread. It's a good while till
supper, and I don't dast to eat between meals."

Andrew brought the tray to the bedside and propped up the invalid before
he ate his own dinner. He had finished it and cleared up the table
before the high voice called again: "An-ndrew!"

"Yes, Marthy."

"Is there any more of the corned beef? You brought me such a little
mite of a piece."

"Yes, there's plenty more, but I knew you'd object if I brought it
first. Like it, did you?"

"Yes, it was tol'able. Them vegetables was a little rich, but maybe they
won't hurt me. You might bring me another cooky when you come.--Now, you
set down a minute while you're waitin' for my dishes. I've ben worryin'
'bout them moths every minute since you told me, and somethin' has got
to be done."

"I know it. I hated to tell you, but I thought you ought to know. I
guess I c'n clean 'em out the next rainy spell when I have to stay in."

"No, you can't wait for that. And you can't do it