The next direct intimation he gave that his faith in inherited ideas was growing shaky was a plaintive little request that I would not stick so close to the old wooden box, but give out enough coffee to ensure him something to drink for his breakfast.

Now, I had no wish that my husband should drink bad coffee just because Providence had seen fit to remove his mother from this sublunary sphere:  I merely wanted to cure him of telling me how mother did it; so as soon as he thus tacitly acknowledged that his suggestion had not been a success, I took matters into my own hands, and proved to him that coffee could be made as well by young wives as by old mothers.

In the due revolution of the seasons King Cotton donned his royal robes of ermine once more, and sacks again became the one thing needful.  It was the very rainiest, wettest, muddiest picking-season that had ever been seen.  In pursuance of my plan, I had seven or eight women down from the quarters, and a spinning-wheel also, which was set to humming right under our bed-room window.

The rainy weather had kept Charlie in the house, and he was lounging on a couch in my room, enjoying a pleasant semi-doze, when the monotonous whirr-r-r of the spinning-wheel first attracted his attention.  “Lulie,” he asked, rising into a sitting posture, “what is that infernal noise on the back gallery?”

“The spinning-wheel, Charlie.  They are spinning thread to make the sacks with,” I answered, without looking up from my work.

“Oh!” and Charlie subsided for a while.  “Ahem!  Lulie, my dear, how long is that devilish spinning to be kept up?”

“Devilish!  Why, Charlie, that’s the way mother did it.”

“Well,” said Charlie, scratching his head and looking foolish, “I know she did, Lulie, but I’ll be confounded if I can stand it much longer.”

“Why, Charlie, you used to stand it when mother did it,” I answered maliciously.

“I was hardly ever about the house in those days, Lulie:  I suppose that was why I didn’t mind it.”

“Why weren’t you about the house much in those days, Charlie?”

“Because you weren’t in it, you witch, I suppose.”

This was such a decided triumph over the old lady of the portrait that I could afford to be amiable; so, giving him a spasmodic little hug and an energetic little kiss, I went out and stopped the spinning nuisance immediately.

After that the hobby went slower and slower, feebler and feebler.  One more energetic display of my bogus spirit and “the enemy was mine.”

Winter came on in its duly-appointed time, bringing with it the usual quantity of wild ducks and more than the usual degree of severe cold.  Charlie was an inveterate duck-shooter, and with the return of the season came the return of mud and dirt in my bowls.

I determined to do as mother did.  A tin basin made its appearance on the back gallery, four yards of crash sewed together at the end were made to revolve over the roller, and by way of forcing the experiment to a successful issue orders were given that my own pitchers should be filled only after nightfall.