“Iz you hongry, Lil Missus?”

“Well, I believe I am, rather, Uncle Squire, and your supper looks nice, but I think I will save myself for Aunt Judy’s waffles.  I took her a basketful of fresh eggs, and she promised me some waffles and scrambled eggs.  You know I adore waffles and scrambled eggs, Uncle Squire.”

Suddenly the child burst into a ringing peal of laughter.  Something very funny was evidently suggested by the eggs.

“O, Uncle Squire,” she cried, “did I tell you how I got the best of Jemimy at last?”

“Iz dat de hen dat’s been so bobstreperous, you bin tellen’ me erbout, Lil Missus?”

“The very same, Uncle Squire.  O ’twas nice, the way I managed her yesterday.  I let all of the good hens out, and I said, ’Jemimy, you’ve got to stay in.  You haven’t been doing your duty lately at all.  I am just ashamed of you.  You will ruin your reputation.  People will stop coming here to get your eggs to set with.”  Aunt Betsy says, “Jemimy, A bird that can sing, and wont sing, ought to be made to sing, and I am going to do my duty by you.  I am just going to keep you in here until you get in the habit, the habit, you hear, Jemimy, of laying one egg a day.’  You know, Uncle Squire, habit is every thing.  Jemimy cackled, just like she was going right at it.  But I said, ‘No, Jemimy, you’ve fooled me before.’  Then she ruffled up her feathers and flew around, determined to get out.  I was firm with her, Uncle Squire, and wouldn’t let her out.  This evening I went there and found two beautiful eggs, fresh laid, in her nest.”

“You iz er sharp one, Lil Missus; I allers sed it.  Who’d s’poze now you cud make dat hen underston’ lak er human creeter, dat she gotter turn over er new leaf en do better.  Pear-lak, sum chillen’s born’d en de wurl’ now-er-days wid ez much sense ez grow’d-up fo’ks.”

As they sat there a rumble of thunder was heard.  Roberta listened intently:  “’Tater wagens, Uncle Squire, big ’tater wagens, rumbling over the bridge.”

“Yes, Lil Missus, it’s comen’.  En de stormier ’tis, en de darker ’tis, de better fur him en me.”

That night about nine o’clock Mrs. Marsden heard a low but distinct rap on the shutters of the sitting-room window opening on the porch.  She happened to be there alone.  It startled her for an instant, but she soon recovered composure and asked: 

“Who is it?”

“A friend,” was the reply.

“What do you want”

“Shelter for a few hours, a bite to eat, and—­I will tell you more anon.”

“These are dreadful times, and I am not in the habit of taking strangers in at this hour of the night.”

“All right,” said he on the outside; then added with the glibness of a Fourth of July stump speaker, “that is, if you can reconcile it with your conscience to turn the cold shoulder on a fellow being in the desperate strait I am in.”

“Where did you come from?” was next asked.