wife had spent five years helpless in that chair, I guess you'd
countenance any proceedings that set her on her feet.

CULPEPPER.

_Towers threateningly._

If your wife is the woman she was, she would rather sit helpless
forever beside the Rock of Ages, than dance and flaunt herself in the
house of idols!

BEELER.

_With depreciating humor._

O, I guess she ain't doin' much flauntin' of herself in any house of
idols.--You've heard Doctor here say it's all natural enough. Maybe
this kind of cure is the coming thing.

LITTLEFIELD.

The Brother would drive us doctors into the poorhouse, if he could keep
up the pace. And you preachers, too, as far as that goes. If he could
keep up the pace! Well--

_Sucks at his cigarette deliberately._

lucky for us, he _can't_ keep it up.

BEELER.

Why can't he keep it up?

LITTLEFIELD.

Can't stand the strain.--Oh, I haven't seen him operate, but I'm
willing to bet his miracles take it out of him!

CULPEPPER.

_Takes his hat and goes toward the outer door._

Miracles, indeed!

LITTLEFIELD.

_Following._

Oh, wait for me, Doctor; we're both in the same boat!

BEELER.

Hope you gentlemen will come back again to-night, and soon too. Don't
know what'll happen if things go wrong in there.

_Points towards the hall._

LITTLEFIELD.

All right--you can count on me--

BEELER.

_To Culpepper._

And you?

CULPEPPER.

I seldom shirk my duty.

_Beeler closes the door after them._

_Martha enters from the kitchen, with a pan of dough, which she
sets before the fire to raise._

BEELER.

You keepin' an eye out, Marthy?

MARTHA.

Guess your barn'd 'a' been afire, if I hadn't been keepin' an eye out.

BEELER.

I warned 'em about fire!

MARTHA.

Haymow ketched. If I hadn't been there to put it out, we'd 'a' been
without a roof by now.

BEELER.

Guess I better go keep an eye out myself.

MARTHA.

Guess you had!

_Beeler goes out by the kitchen. Martha takes up mechanically her
eternal task of setting things to rights--gathering up Annie's toys
and arranging the furniture in more precise order. Meanwhile, Rhoda
enters from the hall with the mother of the sick child, a frail
young woman of nervous type. She clings to Rhoda feverishly._

MOTHER.

Don't leave me!

RHODA.

You mustn't worry. Your baby will get well.

_Rhoda sinks in a low easy chair before the fire, and t