After my talk with Uncle Beck all my morbidity began to melt away, and, growing better in mind, my body grew stronger ... he wrote to my father that it was not consumption ... so now I was turning my coming West into a passing visit, instead of a long enforced sojourn there for the good of my health.

* * * * *

I found different household arrangements on revisiting Aunt Rachel and her household.

For one thing, the family had moved into town ...  Newcastle ... and they had a fine house to live in, neat and comfortable.  Gone was that atmosphere of picturesque, pioneer poverty.  Though, to be sure, there sat Josh close up against the kitchen stove, as of old.  For the first sharp days of fall were come ... he was spitting streams of tobacco, as usual.

“I hate cities,” was his first greeting to me.  He squirted a brown parabola of tobacco juice, parenthetically, into the wood-box behind the stove, right on top of the cat that had some kittens in there.

Aunt Rachel caught him at it.

“Josh, how often have I told you you mustn’t spit on that cat.”

“‘Scuse me, Ma, I’m kind o’ absint-minded.”

The incident seemed to me so funny that I laughed hard.  Aunt Rachel gave me a quiet smile.

“Drat the boy, he’s allus findin’ somethin’ funny about things!”

This made me laugh more.  But I had brought Uncle Josh a big plug of tobacco, and he was placated, ripping off a huge chew as soon as he held it in his hands.

The great change I have just spoken of came over the family because Phoebe’s two sisters, Jessie and Mona—­who had been off studying to be nurses, now had come back, and, taking cases in town, they were making a good living both for themselves and the two old folks....

I had learned from Uncle Beck, as he drove me in to Mornington, that, the last he heard of Phoebe, she was working out as a maid to “some swells,” in that city.

* * * * *

“Damme, ef I don’t hate cities an’ big towns,” ejaculated Uncle Josh, breaking out of a long, meditative silence, “you kain’t keep no dogs there ... onless they’re muzzled ... and no ferrets, neither ... and what ‘ud be the use if you could?... there ain’t nothin’ to hunt anyhow ... wisht we lived back on thet old muddy hilltop agin.”

* * * * *

Supper almost ready ... the appetizing smell of frying ham—­there’s nothing, being cooked, smells better....

Paul came in from work ... was working steady in the mills now, Aunt Rachel had informed me.

Paul came in without a word, his face a mask of such empty hopelessness that I was moved by it deeply.

“Paul, you mustn’t take on so.  It ain’t right nor religious,” said Uncle Josh, knocking the ashes out of his pipe ... he smoked and chewed in relays.  Paul replied nothing.

“Come on, folks,” put in Rachel, “supper’s ready ... draw your chairs up to the table.”