“I ain’ got much use fur dis yer gittin’ en ungittin’ er salvation,” put in Uncle Ish from the table where he was eating a late dinner of Aunt Verbeny’s providing.  “Dar’s too much monkeyin’ mixed up wid it fur me.  Hit’s too much de work er yo’ j’ints ter make me b’lieve hit’s gwine ter salivate yo’ soul.  When my wife, Mandy, wuz ’live, I tuck ’n cyar’ed her long up ter one er dese yer revivals, en’ ole Sis Saphiry Baker come ‘long gittin’ happy, en fo’ de Lawd she rid ‘er clean roun’ de chu’ch.  Naw, suh, de religion I wanter lay holt on is de religion uv rest.”

“I ain’ never sarved my Lawd wid laziness,” put in Aunt Verbeny reprovingly.  “When He come arter me I ain’ never let de ease er my limbs stan’ in de way.  Ef you can’t do a little shoutin’ on de ea’th, you’re gwineter have er po’ sho’ ter keep de Lawd f’om overlookin’ you at Kingdom Come.”

The strange little woman faced them proudly.  “My husband, Silas, got religion in de night time,” she said, “an’ he bruck clean thoo de slats.  De bed ain’t helt stiddy sence.”

Eugenia emerged from the dusk of the doorway, where she had lingered, and Delphy rose to take the dripping clothes.

“Des’ look at her!” exclaimed Aunt Verbeny at the girl’s entrance.  “Ain’t she a sight ter mek a blin’ man see?” Then she added to the strange little woman, “Dar ain’ no lack er beaux roun’ yer, needer.”

Uncle Ish grunted.

“I ain’ seen ’em swum es dey swum roun’ Miss Meely,” he muttered, while Aunt Verbeny shook her fist at him behind the stranger’s back.  “De a’r wuz right thick wid ’em.”

“I reckon dis chile’ll be mah’r’d soon es she sets her min’ on it,” returned Delphy indignantly.  “She ain’ gwineter have ter do much cuttin’ er de eyelashes, needer.  De beaux come natch’ul.”

“Dar’s Marse Dudley, now,” said Aunt Verbeny.  “I ain’ so ole but my palate hit kin taste a gent’mun a mile off.  Marse Dudley ain’ furgit de times I’se done roas’ him roas’in’ years when he warn’ mo’n er chile.  Hit’s ‘how’s yo’ health, Aunt Verbeny?’ des’ de same es ’twuz den.”

Eugenia laughed and flung the heap of garments into Delphy’s arms.  “The rain’s over,” she said; “but, Uncle Ish, you’d better get Congo to fix you up for the night.  It is too wet for your rheumatism,” and she ran singing upstairs to where the general was dozing in the sitting-room.  “Wake up, dad! it’s going to clear!”

The general started heavily from his sleep.  There was a dazed look in his eyes.

“Clear?” he asked doubtfully, “has it been raining?”

Eugenia shook him into consciousness.

“Raining for three whole days, and I believe you’ve slept through it.  Now the clouds are breaking.”

“What is it the Bible says about ’the winter of our discontent’?—­that’s what it is.”

“Not the Bible, dear—­Shakespeare.”

“It’s the same thing,” retorted the general testily.  His speech came thickly as if he held a pebble in his mouth, and the swollen veins in his face were livid.