"Do you indeed? What, pray?"

"Somethin' to keep you interested," I told him. "Your life's like a wharf timber that the worms have been at-there's too many 'bores' in it.

If you could find somethin' bran-new to interest you, you'd be lively enough. I'd risk the depression then-and the enervation, too, whatever that is."

Oh, horrible! How could I joke about a matter of life and death?

Well, so it went for the two days and in the evenin' of the second day, Lot come tiptoein' into my room. He was all nerved up. The next mornin'

was the time he'd planned to go to camp-meetin'; and how could he go now?

"Why not?" says I. "I'll be all right. Your Aunt Lucindy's comin' to keep house, ain't she?"

"Yes-yes, she's comin'. But how can I leave Cousin Lemuel? He won't want me to go, I'm sure."

"So'm I," I says; "he'll kick as a matter of principle. But if you're gone afore he knows it, he'll _have_ to like it-or lump it, one or t'other. See here, Lot Deacon; you take my advice and clear out to-morrow early, afore the bug-hunter's nerves twitter loud enough to wake him. You can get our breakfast and leave it on the table out here in the hall. I can manage to hobble that far. Afore dinner Aunt Lucindy'll be on deck."

He brightened up consider'ble. "I might do that," he says. "And anyway Aunt Lucindy's likely to be here afore breakfast. She's always terrible prompt. But will Cousin Lemuel forgive me, do you think?"

"I don't know," says I. "But I will, provided you don't say 'terrible'

again. Now clear out and don't let me see you till camp-meetin's over.

And say," I called after him, "just ask one of your spirit chums what's good for nerve twitters."

Next mornin' was sort of dark and cloudy, so probably that accounts for my oversleepin'. Anyhow 'twas after seven o'clock when Cousin Lemuel, blanket and shawl and slippers, full undress uniform, comes flappin'

into my room. I woke up and stared at him. He was pale, and tremblin'

all over.

"What's the matter now?" says I.

"Hush!" he whispers, fearful. "Hush! somethin' awful has happened. My cousin Lot is insane."

"_What?_" I sung out, settin' up in bed.

"Hush! hush!" says he. "It is horrible. Insanity is hereditary in our family. What shall we do?"

"Insane-rubbish!" says I, havin' waked up a little more by this time.

"What makes you think he's insane?"

He held up a shakin' hand. "Listen!" he whispers. "He has been makin'

dreadful noises for the past half-hour, and singin'-actually singin'-in the strangest voice. Listen!"

I listened. Down below in the kitchen there was a racket of pans and dishes and a stompin' as if a menagerie elephant had broke loose from its moorin's. Then somebody busts out singin', loud and high:

"There's a land that is fairer than day, And by faith we can see it afar."

"There, there!" says Lemuel. "Don't you hear it? Would a sane man sing like that?"

I rocked back and forth in bed and roared and laughed. "A sane man wouldn't," I says, "but a sane _woman_ might, if she had strong enough lungs. That ain't Lot. Lot's gone to camp-meetin', to be gone till to-morrow night. That's his wife's aunt, Lucindy Hammond, from Denboro.

She's goin' to keep house for us till he gets back."

CHAPTER VII-THE FORCE AND THE OBJECT

Well, it took all of fifteen minutes for me to drive the idea out of that critter's head that his relative had gone loony. I was hoppin'

around on my sound foot tryin' to dress, while I explained things. I had enough clothes on to be presentable in white folks' society, when there come a whoop up the back stairs.

"Good morn-in'!" whoops Aunt Lucindy. "Breakfast is ready! Shall I fetch it up?"

"My soul!" squeals Cousin Lemuel, and bolts for his own room. I b.u.t.toned my collar by main strength and answered the hail.

"All hands on deck!" I sung out. "Fetch her along."

There was a mighty stompin' on the stairs, and then through the door marches as big a woman as ever I see in my born days. 'Twa'n't only that she was fleshy,-she must have weighed all of two hundred and thirty,-but she was big, big as a small mountain, seemed so, and was dressed in some sort of curtain-calico gown that made her look bigger yet. She was luggin' a tray heaped up with vittles enough for a small ship's company.

"Good mornin'," says she, in a voice as big as the rest of her, and as cheery as the fust sunshine on a foggy day. She was smilin' all over, but there was a square look to her chin-the upper one, for she had no less than two and a half-that made me think she could be the other thing if occasion called for. "Good mornin'," says she. "Is this Lemuel?"

"It ain't," says I. "Cousin Lemuel is in disability just at present. My name's Snow."

"Oh, yes!" she hollers-every time she spoke she hollered-"Oh, yes! Cap'n Zebulon Snow, of course. I'm Mrs. Hammond. Here's your breakfast."

"Mine!" says I, lookin' at the heap of rations. "You mean mine and Cousin Lemuel's."

"Oh, no, I don't," says she, still smilin', and puttin' the tray down on the table, in the way she did everything, with a bang; "I mean yours, Cap'n Snow. Lemuel's is all ready, though, and I'll fetch it right up. I know what men's appet.i.tes are; I've had experience."

Afore I could think of an answer to this she swept out of the door like a toy typhoon, the breeze from her skirts settin' papers and light stuff flyin', and was stompin' down the stairs, singin' "Sweet By and By" at the top of her lungs. I looked at the tray and scratched my head. My appet.i.te ain't a hummin'-bird's, by a considerable sight, but that breakfast would have lasted me all day. As for Lemuel, about all he did with food was find fault with it. And just then in he comes.

"What's that?" says he, pointin' to the tray.

"That?" says I. "That's my breakfast. Yours is just like it and it'll be right up."

He fidgeted with his specs and bent over to look. His nose was anything but a pug, but I give you my word you could almost see it turn up.

"Fried potatoes!" he says; "and fried fish! and fried eggs! and griddle-cakes! Why-why it's _all_ fried! Horrible!"

"Ain't there enough?" I asks, sarcastic. "If not, I presume likely there's more in the kitchen."

"Enough!" he fairly screamed it. "I never take anything but a slice of very dry toast and a cup of tea in the mornin'. It's a principle of mine. And I never eat anything fried! I-I-"

"All right," says I, "you tell her so. Here she is." And afore he could get out of the door she sailed through it, luggin' another tray loaded like the fust one. She slammed it down and turned to the invalid, who was tryin' to hide his blanket dressin'-sack behind a chair.

"Here is Lemuel!" she hollers. "It _is_ Lemuel, isn't it? I'm _so_ glad to see you! I'm Lucindy, Lot's auntie. In a way we're related, so we must shake hands."

She reached over and took his little thin hand in her big one and gave it a squeeze that made him curl up like a fishin' worm.

"There!" says she, "now we're all acquainted and sociable. Ain't that nice! You two set right down and eat. I'll trot up again in a few minutes to see how you're gettin' on. Sure you've got all you want? All right, then." Out she went, singin' away, and Cousin Lemuel flopped down in a chair.

"Good heavens!" he gasps, working the fingers Aunt Lucindy had shook, to make sure they was all there. "Good heavens!" says he.