Mabel’s nerves had received too great a shock to rally immediately, and as day after day went by, she still kept her room, notwithstanding the very pointed hints of her mother-in-law that “she was making believe for the sake of sympathy.”  Why didn’t she get up and go out doors—­anybody would be sick to be flat on their back day in and day out; or did she think she was spiting her by showing what muss she could keep the “best chamber” in if she chose?

This last was undoubtedly the grand secret of Mrs. Livingstone’s dissatisfaction.  Foiled in her efforts to dislodge them, she would not yield without an attempt at making Mabel, at least, as uncomfortable in mind as possible.  Accordingly, almost every day when her son was not present, she conveyed from the room some nice article of furniture, substituting in its place one of inferior quality, which was quite good enough, she thought, for a penniless bride.

“‘Pears like ole miss goin’ to make a clean finish of her dis time,” said Aunt Milly, who watched her mistress’ daily depredations.  “Ole Sam done got title deed of her, sure enough.  Ki! won’t she ketch it in t’other world, when he done show her his cloven foot, and won’t she holler for old Milly to fotch her a drink of water? not particular then—­drink out of the bucket, gourd-shell, or anything; but dis nigger’ll ’sign her post in de parlor afore she’ll go.”

“Why, Milly,” said ’Lena, who overheard this colloquy, “don’t you know it’s wrong to indulge in such wicked thoughts?”

“Bless you, child,” returned the old negress, “she ’sarves ’em all for treatin’ that poor, dear lamb so.  I’d ’nihilate her if I’s Miss Mabel.”

“No, no, Milly,” said Aunt Polly, who was present.  “You must heap coals of fire on her head.”

“Yes, yes, that’s it—­she orto have ’em,” quickly responded Milly, thinking Polly’s method of revenge the very best in the world, provided the coals were “bilin’ hot,” and with this reflection she started upstairs, with a bowl of nice, warm gruel she had been preparing for the invalid.

Several times each day Grandma Nichols visited Mabel’s room, always prescribing some new tea of herbs, whose healing qualities were wonderful, having effected cures in every member of Nancy Scovandyke’s family, that lady herself, as a matter of course, being first included.  And Aunt Milly, with the faithfulness characteristic of her race, would seek out each new herb, uniting with it her own simple prayer that it might have the desired effect.  But all in vain, for every day Mabel became weaker, while her dark eyes grew larger and brighter, anon lighting up with joy as she heard her husband’s footsteps in the hall, and again filling with tears as she glanced timidly into his face, and thought of the dread reality.

“Maybe I shall die,” was more than once murmured in her sleep, and John Jr., as often as he heard those words, would press her burning hands, and mentally reply, “Poor little Meb.”