aptize the babies.

REV. MR. BATHOLOMMEY. Rose!

MRS. BATHOLOMMEY. At the last minute, he'll want to make a will--and you
know he hasn't made one. He'll want to remember the church and his
charities and his friends; and if he dies before he can carry out his
intentions, the minister will be blamed as usual. It's not fair.

REV. MR. BATHOLOMMEY. Sh! Sh! My dear! These private matters--

DR. MACPHERSON. I'll trouble you, Mistress Batholommey, to attend to your
own affairs. Did you never hear the story of the lady who flattened her
nose--sticking it into other people's business?

REV. MR. BATHOLOMMEY. Doctor! Doctor! I can't have that!

MRS. BATHOLOMMEY. Let him talk, Henry. No one in this town pays any
attention to Dr. MacPherson since he took up with spiritualism.

REV. MR. BATHOLOMMEY. Rose! [_He motions to her to be silent, as_ PETER,
_coming up the stairs from the cellar, is heard singing_.

PETER. "Drop in the fat some apples red,
(Tra, la, ritte, ra, la, la, la!)
Then spread it on a piece of bread,
(Tra, la, ritte, ra, la, la, la!)"

[_He opens the door, carrying a big bottle in his hand; hailing the_
BATHOLOMMEYS _cheerfully_.] Good-morning, good people. [_He puts the jug
on the sideboard and hangs up the key. The_ BATHOLOMMEYS _look sadly at_
PETER. MRS. BATHOLOMMEY _in the fore-ground tries to smile pleasantly, but
can only assume the peculiarly pained expression of a person about to
break terrible news._

REV. MR. BATHOLOMMEY. [_Rising to the occasion--warmly grasping_ PETER'S
_hand_.] Ah, my dear friend! Many thanks for the flowers William brought
us, and the noble cheque you sent me. We're still enjoying the vegetables
you generously provided. I _did_ relish the squash.

PETER. [_Catching a glimpse of_ MRS. BATHOLOMMEY'S _gloomy expression_.]
Anything distressing you this morning, Mrs. Batholommey?

MRS. BATHOLOMMEY. No, no.... I hope _you're_ feeling well--er--I don't
mean that--I--

REV. MR. BATHOLOMMEY. [_Cheerily_.] Of course, she does; and why not, why
not, dear friend?

PETER. Will you have a glass of my plum brandy?

MRS. BATHOLOMMEY. [_Stiffly_.] No, thank you. As you know, I belong to the
W.C.T.U.

PETER. Pastor?

REV. MR. BATHOLOMMEY. [_Tolerantly_.] No, thank you. I am also opposed to
er--

PETER. We're going to drink to spooks--the Doctor and I.

MRS. BATHOLOMMEY. [_With a startled cry_.] Oh! [_Lifts her handkerchief to
her eyes_.] How can you! And at a time like this