“He’s mad, plum crazy,” she pleaded.  “Nobody knows what he’s suffered but me.  I don’t say it ain’t a jedgment, mebbe it is.  We thought we was jest about right.  The pride we took in Sunny Bushes was sinful; yas, it was.  The Lord has seen fit to chastise us, an’ I’m willin’, I tole Jaspar so, ter begin agen.  We’re healthy, an strong, though we don’t look it, I’ll allow.  Jaspar is plum crazy.  His words las’ night proved it.  He said we might begin life agen in a marble hall sech as I hed dreamed about.  Good land o’ Peter!  I never dreamed of marble halls in all my life, but I dassn’t contradict him.”

“He believes you dreamed of them,” I said, “and he is quite sure you ought to live in them.”

“He thinks the world o’ me,” said Mrs. Panel, in a softer tone, “but this world an’ the next won’t turn him from what he’s set his mind to do.  I’d oughter be ashamed o’ speakin’ so of him, but it’s so.  Mercy!  I hev been talkin’.”

She said no more till we descended from the buggy in the livery stable where Jaspar was in the habit of putting up his horses.

“You ain’t seen Mr. Panel, hev you?” she asked the ostler.

“He’s around somewheres,” the man replied.  With this information we started out to look for him.  Away from the familiar brush hills, confronted by strange faces, confused, possibly, by the traffic, my companion seemed so nervous and helpless that I dared not leave her.  Almost unconsciously, we directed our steps towards the Amalgamated Oil Company’s office.  Here we learned that Leveson was in town, and that Uncle Jap had called to see him.

“Did he see him?” Mrs. Panel’s voice quavered.

“No,” the clerk answered curtly; then he added:  “Nobody sees the boss without an appointment.  We told Mr. Panel to call to-morrow.”

If the clerk had spoken with tongues of angels Lily could not have assumed a more seraphic expression.

“An’ where is he now?” she asked.

“Your husband, ma’am?  I can’t tell you.”

“I mean Mr. Leveson.”

“He’s in there,” the private room was indicated, “and up to his eyes in work.  He won’t quit till he goes to dinner at the Paloma.  D’ye hear the typewriters clicking?  He makes things hum when he’s here, and don’t you forget it.”

“I shall never forget that,” said Mrs. Panel, in an accent which made me remember that her grandfather had been a graduate of Harvard University.  “Good-afternoon.”

We walked on down the street.  Suddenly, Mrs. Panel staggered, and might have fallen had I not firmly grasped her arm.

“I dunno’ what ails me,” she muttered.

“Did you eat any breakfast this morning?”

“I dunno’ as I did,” she admitted with reluctance.

“Did you eat any dinner?”

“Mebbee I didn’t.”  Her innate truthfulness compelled her to add with a pathetic defiance:  “I couldn’t hev swallered a mossel to save my life.”