“Emma,” said Peter, severely, “I’m ashamed of you!  Take that silly apron off your head and listen to me.  You know very well you aren’t being left to shift for yourself.  You’ll be provided for better than you’ve ever been.  Why, all you’ll have to do—­”

“All I ‘ll hab to do is jes’ crawl into my grave en stay dere.  I done raised ’im fum de egg up, en now he ’s got comb en kin crow it ’s tail-feathers over de fence en fly off wid ’im!  Ah, Lawd!  You done made ’em en You knows whut roosters is like!”

“Emma!  Look here, confound it!—­”

“Who gwine look after ’im?  I axes you fum my heart, who gwine do it?—­Never did hab no mo’ sense dan a rabbit widout I ’s by, en now dey aims to tun ’im loose!  Ah, Lawd!”

“Emma, listen!  Emma, what the—­”

“Dem furrin women ’ll do ‘im lak dem women done po’ old Cassius. Dey ’ll conjure ’im!  En widout I by, who gwine make ’im put one live frawg on ’is nekked stummick, so ‘s to sweat de speret o’ dat frawg een, en de speret o’ dat conjure out?  No-buddy.  Den he ’ll up en die.  Widout one Gawd’s soul o’ ’is own folkses to put de coppers on ‘is eyes en’ tie up de corpse’s jaws.—­Ah Lawd, ah Lawd!”

“Oh, shut up, you old idiot!  I’m not coming home to my meals any more, if this is how you’re going to behave!” This from Peter, disgustedly.

“Ain’t you, suh?  All right, suh, Mistuh Champneys, you ’s be boss.  But I glad to my Gawd Miss Maria ain’t ’yuh to see dis day!” And Emma began to sniffle.

Peter pushed his untouched dinner aside, and reached for his hat.  He looked at Emma Campbell irefully.

“Damn!” exploded Peter.

Emma Campbell got to her feet with astounding quickness, ran into the kitchen, and returned in a moment with another platter of chicken, rice, and gravy.

“‘Yuh, chile.  Set down en eat yo’ bittles.  You ain’t called on to hab no hard feelin’s ’bout dis chicken.  ‘T ain’t none o’ ours, nohow.”  Peter resumed his chair and waived cross-examination.

Mr. Champneys having come, so to speak, between dark and daylight, Riverton knew nothing about his visit, for Peter hadn’t thought to inform them.  This affair seemed so unreal, so improbable, so up in the air, that he dared not mention it.  Suppose it mightn’t be true, after all.  Suppose fate played a cruel joke.  Suppose Mr. Champneys changed his mind.  So Peter, who had a horror of talk, and writhed when asked personal questions by people who felt that they had a perfect right to know all about his business, kept strict silence, and enjoined the same silence upon Emma Campbell, who could be trusted to hold her tongue when bidden.

Now, one simply cannot remember the price of pots and pans and sheet-iron and plows and ax-handles, when one is living in the beginning of an astounding fairy story, when the most momentous change is impending, when one’s whole way of life is about to be diverted into different channels.  The things one hates, like being a hardware clerk, for instance, automatically slide into the background when the desire of the heart approaches.