With the approach of winter, however, other and graver troubles developed.  The rent of the cabin, which had always been promptly paid out of Gordon Lee’s wages, had now to come out of Amanda’s limited earnings.  Two years’ joint savings had gone to pay the doctor and the druggist.

Amanda gave up the joys of club life, and began to take in small washings, which she did at night.  Gordon Lee, surrounded by every luxury save that of approbation, continued to lie on his back in the white bed and nurse his hallucinations.

“’Mandy,” he said one morning as she was going to work, “wished you’d ast Marse Jim ef he got a’ ol’ pair of pants he could spare me.”

Her face brightened.

“You fixin’ to git up, Honey?” she asked hopefully.

“No, I’s jes collectin’ ob my grave-clothes,” said Gordon Lee.  “Dere’s a pair ob purple socks in de bottom drawer, an’ a b’iled shirt in de wardrobe.  But I been layin’ heah steddyin’ ’bout dat shirt.  Hit’s got Marse Jim’s name on de tail of it, an’ s’pose I git to heaben, an’ St. Peter he read de name an’ look hit up in de jedgment book.  He’s ’lowable to come to me an’ say, ‘Huccome you wearin’ dat shirt?  Dey ain’t but one James Bartrum writ down in de book, an’ he ain’t no colored pusson.’  ’Co’se I could explain, but I’s got ‘splainin’ ’nough to do when I git to heaben widout dat.”

Amanda paused with her hand on the doorknob.

“Marse Jim’ll beat you to heaben; that is, ef he don’t beat you to the bad place first.  You git that idea of dyin’ outen yer mind, and you’ll git well.”

“I can’t git well till de hoodoo’s lifted.  Aunt Kizzy ’lows—­”

But the door was slammed before he could finish.

The limit of Amanda’s endurance was reached about Christmas-time.  One gloomy Sunday afternoon when she had finished the numerous chores that had accumulated during the week, she started for the coal-shed to get an armful of kindling.

Dusk was coming on, and Hurricane Hollow had never seemed more lonesome and deserted.  The corn-shocks leaned toward one another as if they were afraid of a common enemy.  Somewhere down the road a dog howled dismally.

Amanda resolutely pushed open the door of the shed, and felt her way toward the pile of chips.  Suddenly she found her progress blocked by a strange and colossal object.  It was an oblong affair, and it stood on one end, which was larger than the other.  With growing curiosity she felt its back and sides, and then peered around it to get a front view.  What she saw sent her flying back to the cabin with her mouth open and her limbs shaking.

“Gordon Lee,” she cried, “whose coffin is that settin’ in our coal-shed?”

The candidate for the next world looked very much embarrassed.

“Well, ’Mandy,” he began lamely, “I can’t say ’zactly ez hit’s any pusson’s jes yit.  But hit’s gwine be mine when de summons comes.”