“I don’t know as I c’n ever tell you; it’s too awful even to think of.”

“But you—­”

“I know, ‘n’ I’m goin’ to.  But I tell you once for all, Mrs. Lathrop, ’t this’ll be a lesson to me forever after ‘s to takin’ the say-so o’ other folks unto myself.  ‘N’ I didn’t really consider ‘t I was doin’ so this time, f’r if I had, Lord knows I’d ‘a’ landed three beds atop o’ him afore I’d ‘a’ ever—­” She stopped and shook convulsively.

“Go on,” said Mrs. Lathrop, her curiosity getting the better of her sympathy, and her impatience ranking both.

Susan ceased sobbing, and essayed explanation.

“You see, after you was gone, he said ’t he was pretty hot these last nights, ‘n’ ’t that was maybe what kept him so awfully awake.  I asked him if—­if—­maybe the feather-bed ’n’—­well, Mrs. Lathrop, to put the whole in a nut-shell, we settled to move him, ‘n’ I moved him.  I know I didn’t hurt him one bit, for I’m ’s handy with—­at least, I was’s handy with him ’s I am with a broom.  ‘N’ I laid him on the lounge, ‘n’ dumped that bed out into the back hall.  I thought I ’d sun it ‘n’ put it away this afternoon, f’r you know ’s I’m never no hand to leave nothin’ lyin’ aroun’.  Well, I come back ‘n’ got out some fresh sheets, ‘n’ jus’ ’s I was—­”

The speaker halted, and there was a dramatic pause.

“Where is—­” Mrs. Lathrop asked at last.

“Back in the feathers.  My heaven alive!  When I see what I’d done, I was that upset ’t I just run ’s quick ’s ever I could, ‘n’ got the bed, ‘n’ dumped it right atop of him!”

There was another dramatic silence, finally broken by Mrs. Lathrop’s saying slowly and gravely,—­

“Susan, ’f I was you I wouldn’t never say—­”

“I ain’t goin’ to.  I made up my mind to never tell a livin’ soul the very first thing.  To think o’ me doin’ it!  To think o’ all these years ’t I’ve tended father night ‘n’ day, ‘n’ then to accidentally go ‘n’ do a thing like that!  I declare, it fairly makes me sick all over!”

“Well, Susan, you know what a good daughter you’ve—­”

“I know, ‘n’ I ‘ve been thinkin’ of it.  But somehow nothin’ don’t seem to comfort me none.  Perhaps you’d better make me some tea, ‘n’ while I’m drinkin’ it, Jathrop c’n go down town ’n’—­”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Lathrop, “‘n’ I’ll go right ’n’—­”

“That’s right,” said the bereaved, “‘n’ hurry.”

It was a week later—­a calm and lovely evening—­and the two friends stood by the fence.  The orphan girl was talking, while Mrs. Lathrop chewed her clover.

“It don’t seem like only a week!—­seems more like a month or even a year.  Well, they say sometimes, folks live a long ways ahead in a very short time, ‘n’ I must say ’t, as far ’s my observation ’s extended, comin’ into property always leads to experience, so I couldn’t in reason complain ‘t not bein’ no exception.  This ’s been the liveliest week o’ my