wide earth c'd help wishin' was on top o' their grave the minute they
laid eyes on it. It's a lion--a weepin' lion--kind o' tryin' to wipe
his eyes with one paw. I tell you I never saw nothin' one quarter so
handsome over no one yet, 'n' if I wasn't thinkin' o' adoptin' a child
I'd never rest until I'd set that lion on top of father. But o'
course, as it is, I can't even think how it might look there; the
livin' has rights over the dead, 'n' my child can't go without the
necessaries of life while my father gets a weepin' lion 't when you
come right square down to it he ain't got no more use for 'n' a cat
has for two tails. No, I'm a rich woman, but all incomes has their
outside fence. 'F a man 's got a million a year, he can't spend two
million, 'n' I can't start in child raisin' 'n' tombstone father all
in the same year. Father 'll have to wait, 'n' he got so used to it
while he was alive 't he ought not to mind it much now he's dead. But
I give the man my address, 'n' he give me one o' his cards, 'n' when I
go to the Orphan Asylum I may go back 'n' see him, an' maybe if I tell
him about the baby he'll reduce the lion some. The lion is awful
high--strikes me. He's three hunderd dollars, but the man says that 's
because his tail 's out o' the same block. I asked him if he couldn't
take the tail off, but he said 't that would hurt his reputation. He
said 'f I'd go up the ladder to his second floor 'n' look down on the
lion I'd never talk about sawin' off his tail, 'n' he said 't anyhow
cuttin' it off would only make it cost more because it was cut on in
the first place. I saw the sense o' that, 'n' I remembered, too, 't
even 'f folks in the cemetery never can see the tail, father 'll have
to look at it from higher up 'n the ladder to the monument man's shed,
'n' I don't want him to think 't I economized on the tail of his
tombstone. I tell you what, Mrs. Lathrop, I cert'nly do want that
lion, but I can't have it, so I've decided not to think of it again.
The man c'd see I wanted it, 'n' I c'd see 't he really wanted me to
have it. He felt so kind o' sorry for me 't he said he'd do me a
weepin' fox for one hunderd 'n' fifty, if I wanted it, but I didn't
want no fox. Father didn't have nothin' like a fox--his nose was broad
'n' kind o' flat. He hadn't nothin' like a lion, neither, but I'd like
to have the only lion in the cemetery ours."
Mrs. Lathrop nodded her head sympathetically.
Miss Clegg sighed and looked pensive for a moment, but it was soon
over.
"'N' I've decided about my child too," she continued briskly,--"I've
decided to have a boy. I decided goin' in on the train to-day. I'd
been sorter thinkin' that I'd leave it to chance, but ordinary folks
can't do no more 'n' that, 'n' where 's the good o' me bein' so open
'n' above-board 'f I dunno whether it'll be a boy or girl, after all?
I might 's well 's married the minister, 'n' Lord knows Mrs. Shores's
troubles ought to be warnin' enough to no woman in this community not
to marry no man, f'r one while, at any rate. If Mrs. Shores hadn't
married Mr. Shores, she c'd easy 'a' married his clerk when she fell
in love with him. No woman that 's goin' to fall in love ever ought to
begin by marryin' another man first. It mixes everythin' all up. But
Mrs. Shores was a fool or she never would 'a' married him to begin
with. I told him that the first time 't I see him after she was gone.
I thought 't if it was any comfort to him to know that there was one
person in the c'mmunity 't looked on his wife as a fool he was welcome
to the knowin'. So I told him, 'n' I used those very self-same words
too,--'n' I cert'nly did ache to tell him that he was jus' 's big a
fool himself to 'a' ever married her, but I didn't think 't that would
be jus' polite.
"But all that was right in the first of it--before she took the baby.
I'm free to confess 't I think he c'd 'a' stood anythin' 'f she hadn't
took the baby. It was the baby as used him all up. 'N' that seems kind
o' queer too, for seems to me, 'f my wife run away, I'd be glad to
make a clean sweep o' her 'n' hers 'n' begin all afresh; I'd never
have no injunctions 'n' detectives drawin' wages for chasin' no wife
'n' baby 't left o' their own accord. But that's jus' like a man, 'n'
I must say 't I'm dead glad 't no man ain't goin' to have no right to
interfere with my child. I c'n take it 'n' go anywhere 't I please 'n'
never be afraid o' any subpenny comin' down on me. 'S far 's I'm
concerned, I only wish 't she'd send back 'n' abduct him too, 'n' then
the community 'd have some peace on the Shores subjeck. There ain't
nothin' left to say, 'n' every one keeps sayin' it over 'n' over from
dawn to dark. I must say, Mrs. Lathrop, 't when I c'nsider how much
folks still find to say o' Mrs. Shores 'n' it all, I'm more 'n proud
that I ain't never been one to say nothin' a _tall_."
Mrs. Lathrop did not speak for some time. Then she took up her parrot
again and looked thoughtfully at its feet.
"What made you decide on a b--" she asked at last.
"I didn't decide. I c'u'd n't decide, 'n' so I shook a nickel for
heads 'n' tails."
"'N' it came a boy."
"No, it came a girl, 'n' the minute 't I see 't it was a girl I knew
't I'd wanted a boy all along, so, 's the good o' me bein' free to act
's I please is 't I do act 's I please, I decided then 'n' there on a
boy."
Mrs. Lathrop turned the parrot over.
'F you was so set on a boy, why did you--"
"What do folks ever toss up for? To decide. Tossin' up always shows
you jus' how much you didn't want what you get. Only, as a general
thing, there's some one else who does want it, an' they grab it 'n'
you go empty-handed. The good o' me tossin' is I c'n always take
either side o' the nickel after I've tossed. I ain't nobody's
fool--'n' I never was--'n' I never will be. But I guess I've got to
ask you to go home now, Mrs. Lathrop. I've had a hard day 'n' I'm
'most too tired to pay attention to what you say any longer. I want to
get to bed 'n' to sleep, 'n' then to-morrow maybe I'll feel like
talkin' myself."
* * * * *
The third morning after Miss Clegg's trip to town she astonished her
neighbor by tapping on the latter's kitchen window at the early hour
of seven in the morning. Mrs. Lathrop was getting breakfast, and her
surprise caused her to jump unduly.
"Well, _Susan_!" she said, opening the door, "what ever is the--"
"Matter! Nothin' ain't the matter, only I've had a letter from the
monument man. It come last night, 'n' the minister took it out o' the
post-office 'n' sent it over by little 'Liza Em'ly when she come with
the milk this mornin'. I dunno whether to thank the minister for bein'
so kind or whether to ask him to mind his own business. It's got
'Important' on the corner, 'n' sometimes I don't go to the post-office
for two days at a time, but jus' the same it strikes me 't I ain't
altogether in favor o' the minister's carryin' my mail home with him
any time he feels so inclined. If I'd 'a' married him, I never 'd 'a'
allowed him to interfere with my affairs, 'n' 's long 's I didn't
marry him I don't see no good reason for his doin' so now."
Susan paused and looked at the letter which she held in her hand. Mrs.
Lathrop slid one of the kitchen chairs up behind her, and she sat
down, still looking at the letter.
"It's from the monument man," she said again, "'n' I don't know what
ever I shall do about it, I'm sure."
Mrs. Lathrop was all attention.
"It's about the lion. He says 't he's been 'n' took some black chalk
'n' marked around under him 'Sacred to the memory of Blank Clegg,' 'n'
he says 't it looks so noble 't he's had an offer for the monument 'n'
he wants me to come in 'n' see it afore he sells it to--to some one
else."
There was a short silence, broken at last by Mrs. Lathrop.
"Your father's name wa'n't 'Blank,'" she said; "it was 'Henry.'"
Susan knit her brows.
"I know, 'n' that's one thing 't 's been troublin' me. It's written
out in good plain letters--'Blank Clegg'--'n' I've been tryin' 'n'
tryin' to think what I could 'a' said to 'a' made him suppose 't it
could 'a' been 'Blank.' That 'd be the last name in the wide world for
anybody to name anybody else, I sh'd suppose, 'n' I can't see for the
life o' me why that monument man sh'd 'a' hit on it for father. I'm
cert'nly mighty glad that he's only marked it on in black chalk 'n'
not chopped it out o' the bottom o' the lion. O' course 'f he 'd
chopped it out I'd 'a' had to 'a' taken it an' it'd jus' made me the
laughin'-stock o' the whole community. I know lots o' folks 't are
plenty mean enough 's to say 't that lion was weepin' because I didn't
know my own father's name."
Mrs. Lathrop looked sober.
"So I guess I've got to go to town by to-day's ten o'clock. I ain't no
intention o' takin' the lion, but I _shall_ like to stand off a little
ways 'n' look at the part o' the name 't 's spelt right. Later maybe
I'll visit a few asylums--I ain't sure. But anyway I thought I'd jus'
run over 'n' let you know 't I was goin', 'n' ask you if there's
anythin' 't I can get f'r you while I'm in town."
"No, there isn't," said Mrs. Lathrop with great firmness.
Susan rose to go.
"I'm thinkin' o' buyin' the Shores baby outfit," she said. "I guess
Mr. Shores 'll be glad to sell it cheap. They say 't he can't bear to
be reminded o' the baby, 'n' I don't well see what else the crib 'n'
the baby carriage can remind him of."
"I wonder if the sewing-machine reminds him o' Mrs. Shores," said Mrs.
Lathrop. "I'd be glad to buy it if it did 'n' 'f he was wantin' to
sell it cheap."
"I dunno why it sh'd remind him o' Mrs. Shores," said Susan; "she
never sewed on it none. She never did nothin' 's far 's I c'd make out
except to sit on the front porch 'n' talk to his clerk. My, but I sh'd
think he 'd hate the sight o' that front porch. If it c'd be got off,
I 'd like to buy that of him too. My front porch 's awful old 'n'
shaky 'n' I 'll need a good porch to wheel baby on. He c'd take my
porch in part payment. It's bein' so old 'n' shaky wouldn't matter to
him I don't suppose, for I 'll bet a dollar he 'll never let no other
wife o' his sit out on no porch o' his, not 'ntil after he's dead 'n'
buried anyway; 'n' as for sittin' on a porch himself, well, all is I
know 't if it was me it 'd scorch my rockers."
"What time do you think 't you '11 get back?" asked Mrs. Lathrop.
"I ain't sure. 'F I should get real interested huntin' orphans, I
might stay until it was too dark to see 'em good. I can't tell nothin'
about it, though. You 'd better watch for the light in the kitchen,
'n' when you see it burnin' I wish 't you'd come right over."
Mrs. Lathrop agreed to this arrangement, and Miss Clegg went home to
get ready for town.
* * * * *
She returned about five o'clock, and the mere general aspect of her
approaching figure betokened some doing or doings so well worthy of
neighborly interest that Mrs. Lathrop left her bread in the oven and
flew to satisfy her curiosity.
She found her friend warming her feet by the kitchen stove, and one
look at her radiant countenance sufficed.
"You found a baby!"
Susan upraised supremely joyful eyes.
"No," she replied, "but I've bought the weepin' lion!"
Mrs. Lathrop sat suddenly down.
"You never saw anythin' so grand in all your life! He rubbed the
'Blank' off with a wet cloth 'n' wrote in the 'Henry' with me standin'
right there. I never see anythin' that went right through me that way
before. Puttin' on 'Henry' seemed to bring the lion right into the
family, an'--well, you can believe me or not jus' as you please, Mrs.
Lathrop, but I up 'n' begin to cry right then 'n' there. The monument
man made me sit down on a uncut block 'n' lean my back up against a
No-Cross-no-Crown, 'n' while I sat there he chalked in father's birth
'n' death 'n' 'Erected by his devoted daughter Susan,' 'n' at that I
stood right up 'n' said 't I 'd take it, 'n' it wasn't no hasty
decision, neither, f'r after I 'd made up my mind I couldn't see no
good reason for continuin' to sit there 'n' draw frost out o' granite
'n' into my shoulder-blades jus' for the looks o' the thing."
"But about the ba--" said Mrs. Lathrop.
"Oh, the baby 'll have to go. I told you all along 't it had to be one
or t' other an' in the end it's the lion as has come out on top. I
guess I was n't cut out to be a mother like I was a daughter. I know
't I never wanted a baby for myself half like I 've wanted that lion
for my dead 'n' gone father. Do you know, Mrs. Lathrop, I do believe
't I had a persentiment the first time I ever see that lion. Suthin'
sort o' crep' right up my back, 'n' I 'm jus' sure 't folks 'll come
from miles roun' to see it. I guess it's the Finger o' Fate. When you
come to think o' it, it 's all for the best jus' the way 't it 's come
out. The baby 'd 'a' grown up an' gone off somewhere, an' the lion 'll
stay right where you put him, for he 's so heavy that the monument man
says we 'll have to drive piles all down aroun' father. Then, too,
maybe I could n't 'a' managed a boy an' I can scour that lion all I
want to. 'N' I will scour him too,--nobody need n't suppose 't I've
paid three hunderd dollars f'r anythin' to let it get mossy. I've
invited the monument man 'n' his wife to come 'n' visit me while he's
gettin' the lion in place, 'n' he says he's so pleased over me 'n'
nobody else gettin' it 't he's goin' to give me a paper sayin' 't when
I die he'll chop my date in f'r nothin'. I tell you what, Mrs.
Lathrop, I certainly am glad 't I've got the sense to know when I'm
well off, 'n' I cert'nly do feel that in this particular case I'm
mighty lucky. So all 's well 't ends well."
Mrs. Lathrop nodded.
III
JATHROP LATHROP'S COW
Jathrop Lathrop was just the style and build of young man to be easily
persuaded into taking a kicking cow in full payment of a good debt.
Jathrop having taken the cow, it naturally fell to the lot of his
mother to milk her. The reader can quickly divine what event formed
the third of these easily to be foreseen developments of the most
eventful day in the life of the cow's new proprietor. The kicking cow
kicked Jathrop Lathrop's mother, not out of any especial antipathy
towards that most innocuous lady, but just because it was of a kicking
nature and Mrs. Lathrop was temptingly kickable. The sad part of the
matter was that Mrs. Lathrop was not only kickable but breakable as
well. It followed that at twelve o'clock that noon Miss Clegg,
returning from a hasty trip to the city, was greeted at the depot by
the sad tidings, and it was not until various of the town folk had
finished their versions of the disaster that she was at last allowed
to hasten to the bedside of her dear friend, whom she found not only
in great bodily distress but also already cast in plaster.
Miss Clegg's attitude as she stood in the doorway was one of blended
commiseration and disgust.
"Well, I never would 'a' believed it o' Jathrop!" she burst forth at
last.
"'T wa'n't Jathrop," Mrs. Lathrop protested feebly; "it was the--"
"I know, but the cow never come of her own free will, 'n' it strikes
me 't Jathrop's the one to blame. I never was so done up in my life 's
I was when I hear this about you. You kin believe me or not jus' 's
you please, Mrs. Lathrop, but I was so nigh to struck dead 't I
stopped short with one leg on the station 'n' the other on the train.
It was Johnny 's dodged out o' the ticket-office to tell me the minute
the train stopped, 'n' I d'n' know but I'd be there yet--f'r I was
clean struck all in a heap--only a man jus' behind jammed me with a
case o' beer 't he was bringin' home. To think 's I see you goin' to
the barn jus' 's I was lookin' f'r a place to hide my keys afore
leavin', 'n' then to think 's them was your last legs 'n' you usin'
'em 's innocent 's a grasshopper on a May mornin'!--I tell you I was
so used up I thought some o' askin' to be druv up here, but Johnny
didn't have no time to give pertickilers 'cause the telegraph begin to
work jus' at that very minute 'n' he had to dodge back to see what
they wanted to tick him about, so I see 't the wisest thing was to
walk up 'n' find out f'r myself. Besides, you c'n understand 't if you
was beyond hope I'd be nothin' but foolish to pay a quarter to get to
you in a hurry, 'n' I never was one to be foolish nor yet to waste
quarters, 'n' so I come along through town, 'n' as a consequence I
guess 't I know 's much 's you know yourself now."
Mrs. Lathrop looking duly inquisitive for details of her own accident,
Miss Clegg advanced forthwith upon a seat and occupied it before
beginning.
"I see Mrs. Macy first, 'n' she told me all as to how it happened. She
says you turned two back somersaults 'n' just missed squashin' the
cat, 'n' 't young Dr. Brown told her 't if he hadn't been so busy
plantin' his garden to-day he certainly would 'a' felt 't it 'd 'a'
been nothin' but right to diagnose you all over. Mrs. Macy says she
ain't none too over-pleased 't the way he spoke, for, to her order o'
thinkin', you had a pretty serious kick 'n' you'd ought to realize it.
She wanted me to ask you 'f he had you hang to the head-board while he
give your leg a good hard jerk, 'cause she says 't that's the only
real safe way to make all the bones come back into place; she says 'f
you ain't shattered you're bound to come straight pervided the doctor
jerks hard enough. She says they did her lame leg that way over thirty
years ago, 'n' she says 't, sittin' down 'n' side by side, she'd bet
anything 't the minister 'n' all the deacons couldn't pick out one
from t' other. She says all her trouble comes when she walks. Nights
'n' rockin' she'd never know she was lame herself."
Mrs. Lathrop looked slightly distressed.
"Gran'ma Mullins come up while we was talkin', 'n' she's terrible
upset over you. She never had no lameness, she says; her trouble 's
all in her ribs,--them ribs 't go from under your arms down. But she
wants to know if you was put in plaster, 'n' she said f'r me to ask
right off."
"Yes; I--" replied Mrs. Lathrop.
"Oh!" Susan's face darkened. "I declare, that's too bad. 'N' young Dr.
Brown 's gone now too. I see him 'n' Amelia drivin' out towards the
Sperrits' while I was in the square. Well, if it's on, it's on, 'n'
the Lord be with you, Mrs. Lathrop, f'r 'f Gran'ma Mullins says truth,
no one else c'n help you now. You see, she told Mrs. Macy 'n' me what
plaster is. It's eatin', that's what it is. Plaster 'll eat anythin'
right up, hide, hair, 'n' all. She says don't you know how, when you
smell a dead rat in the wall, you throw some plaster in on him, 'n'
after a while you don't smell no more rat 'cause there ain't no more
rat there to smell; the plaster 's eat him all up. She says you may
laugh 'f you feel so inclined, but there ain't no such big difference
between your leg 'n' a dead rat but what it'll pay you to mark her
words. She says 'f it don't do no more 'n eat the skin off it'll still
be pretty hard for you to lay there without no skin 'n' feel the
plaster goin' in more 'n' more. She says 't we all wish him well, 'n'
yet no one in their right mind c'n deny as young Dr. Brown is n't old
Dr. Carter, 'n' no amount o' well wishin' c'n ever make him so. She
says 'f she was you she 'd never rest till old Dr. Carter 'd looked
into that leg, f'r a leg is a leg, 'n' it says in the Bible 't if you
lose your salt what 'll you salt with."
Mrs. Lathrop's distress deepened visibly.
"I tell you I was more 'n a little troubled over her words. Gran'ma
Mullins ain't one to make up nothin', 'n' I know myself 't that 's
true about the plaster. I 've eat up rats that way time 'n'
again,--mice too, f'r that matter. It 'd be an awful thing f'r you to
lay there peaceful 'n' happy till it come time f'r him to unwrap your
leg 'n' then when he unwrapped have him find no leg in the centre.
Nothin' 't he could say would help any--there you 'd be one leg gone
forever. 'F it was your foot, it 'd all be different, f'r you could
hop around right spry with a false foot, but I d'n' know what good
your foot 'll do you with the leg in between gone. I never hear o' no
real foot on a false leg, 'n' 'f I was you, I certainly wouldn't want
to lay wonderin' 'f I still had two legs f'r six weeks."
"Six weeks!" cried Mrs. Lathrop, with a start that collapsed at once
into a groan; "must I lay--"
"Gran'ma Mullins says," pursued Susan, "'t the reason she knows so
much about it all is 't she had a cousin with a broken leg once. It
wa'n't no cow 's kicked him, jus' he was give to meditatin', 'n' while
meditatin' durin' house-cleanin' he stepped down the wrong side o' the
step-ladder. She says the doctor didn't so much 's dream o' plasterin'
him up, he put splints on him, 'n' he come out fine, but she says he
was suthin' jus' awful to take care of. They thought they couldn't
stand it the first weeks he was so terrible cross, but then his bones
begin to knit, 'n' she says she hopes she may fall dead then 'n' there
'f she ever hear anythin' to equal that leg-knittin'. She said they
was livin' so far out 't they could feel to leave him 'n' go to church
Sunday, 'n' she says when they was comin' back they could hear him
knittin' a good half-mile away."
"Dear, dear--" commented Mrs. Lathrop, giving a heave of unrest.
"Can you feel your leg now?" Susan inquired.
"Yes; I--"
"Then it 's all right so far, but, my! you mus' n't begin gettin'
restless this soon. You ain't been kicked six hours yet, 'n' you 've
got to lay that same way f'r six weeks. After a while it'll be pretty
bad, I expeck, but you ain't got nothin' to complain of to-day. I see
the minister just after I left Mrs. Macy, 'n' he said you must say to
yourself, 'Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof' 'n' get along
the best you can. I c'd see he was some put out over your gettin' a
cow, f'r he c'd n't but understand 't with a cow over the fence I was
n't goin' to be takin' milk from over the crick. He said 't your bein'
kicked was a judgment 'n' the sins o' the parents should be visited on
the children even unto the third 'n' fourth generation. I did n't know
whose sins he was meanin', the cow's or Jathrop's, but I did n't ask.
I guess we 'd ought to make allowances f'r the minister,--he ain't
seemed to ever be able to bear up under them twins. He was pushin' 'em
in the carriage to-day 'n' drawin' little Jane after him in a express
wagon. I asked him how his wife was, 'n' he said she's doin' nicely,
only she can't decide what to name the baby. He walked with me a
piece; it seemed to do him good to speak out frank 'n' open, 'n' I
guess he sees more 'n' more what a mistake he's made; he couldn't but
see it, I sh'd suppose, f'r his wife 's had four children in three
years, 'n' I didn't even adopt one. It's that four-in-three-years
business 't seems to 'a' used him up the most. He says he never even
had a idea 't it could be done. He says his first wife was so
different, 'n' he says it's just been shock after shock, 'n' two
shocks when the twins come. Little Jane caught her dress in a wheel
while we was talkin', 'n' we had to turn her 'n' the express-wagon
both upside down 't once afore we could unwind it, 'n' while we was
doin' that, one o' the twins fell out o' the carriage. The minister
says he don't thank no man to talk race-suicide when he's aroun'; he
says his blood runs cold to think what his family 'll be at his silver
weddin'. I tell you, Mrs. Lathrop, I will own 't I've always felt some
sore at the minister on a'count o' his not marryin' me, but 'f I ever
desired any species o' revenge I certainly 'd be hard to please 'f I
didn't get it to-day when I see him with twins ahead 'n' little Jane
behind 'n' nine at home."
Mrs. Lathrop sighed.
"That reminds me o' what I come over to ask you," said Susan. "Have
you had any dinner?"
"No; I--"
"Then I'll fix you some when I cook mine. I c'n call Jathrop 'n' have
him bring it over when it's ready. I see him in the yard when I come
by; he was peekin' in at the cow. I ain't never had no great opinion
o' Jathrop, but I guess he c'n carry a tray. 'N' now afore I leave
you, Mrs. Lathrop, I will say jus' once more 's my advice is f'r you
to keep a sharp eye on your leg, 'n' if it feels anyway like you can't
feel nothin' I'd have that plaster off in a jiffy. How's it put on?
Round 'n' roun'?"
"He's sent for the windin'," said Mrs. Lathrop weakly; "it's jus' got
some plaster 'n' a long piece o' tore sheet."
Susan moved towards the door.
"It beats me what ever made you go near the hind end o' that cow for,"
she remarked, pausing on the threshold. "Don't you know as it 's the
hind end 's always does the kickin'? The front end can't do
nothin'--'nless it gores. Does she gore?"
"Oh, I d'n' know," wailed poor Mrs. Lathrop.
"I 'm goin'," said Miss Clegg, turning her back as she spoke. "You
jus' lay still now 'n' think o' pleasant things. Nothin' else can't
happen to you 'nless the house catches fire."
Then she went out and away.
* * * * *
It was late in the afternoon that Susan entered next door on her
second visitation of mercy.
"Did you like your dinner?" she inquired, as she brought a rocker to
where it would command a fine view of the bed and its occupant.
"Dinner! I ain't had no--"
Miss Clegg screamed.
"Ain't had no dinner! Why, I give it to Jathrop with my own hands.
Everythin' hot, 'n' the whole tucked up nice in the cloth 't I put
over the bird-cage nights. I made the tea awful strong so 's to keep
up your strength, 'n' there was a scramble o' eggs, 'n' one was fresh,
I _know_. Whatever c'n he have done with it, do you suppose?"
"Maybe he ate--" Mrs. Lathrop began.
Her friend chopped her off with a second scream.
"Ate it!--Jathrop Lathrop!--Do you mean to tell me 't I've been
stewin' myself to feed Jathrop Lathrop! 'N' that good egg too. 'N' all
my tea. I declare, but I am aggravated. The fire 's out now 'n'
everythin' 's put away or I'd go 'n' cook you suthin' else, but I'd
never trust that young man to carry it over."
"I ain't hun--" said Mrs. Lathrop.