Joseph did not know what to do for his joy.  “Well-well, there’s better I am already,” he said.  He walked over the land and coveted the land of his neighbors.  “Dwell here for ever I shall,” he cried to Madlen.  “A grand house I’ll build—­almost as grand as the houses of preachers.”

In the fifth night he died, and before she began to weep, Madlen lifted her voice:  “There’s silly, dear people, to covet houses!  Only a smallish bit of house we want.”

IX

LIKE BROTHERS

Silas Bowen hated his brother John, but when he heard of John’s sickness, he reasoned:  “Blackish has been his dealings.  And trickish.  Sly also.  Odd will affairs seem if I don’t go to him at once.”

At the proper hour he closed the door of his shop.  Then he washed his face, and put beeswax on the dwindling points of his mustache, and he came out of Barnes into Thornton East; into High Road, where is his brother’s shop.

“That is you,” said John to him.

“How was you, man?” Silas asked.  “Talk the name of the old malady.”

“Say what you have to say in English,” John answered in a little voice.  “It is easier and classier.”

That which was spoken was rendered into English; and John replied:  “I am pleazed to see you.  Take the bowler off your head and don’t put her on the harimonium.  The zweat will mark the wood.”

“The love of brothers push me here,” said Silas.  “It is past understanding.  As boyss we learn the same pray-yer.  And we talked the same temperance dialogue in Capel Zion.  I was always the temperance one.  And quite a champion reziter.  The way is round and about, boy bach, from Zion to the grave.”

“Don’t speak like that,” pleaded John.  “I caught a cold going to the City to get ztok.  I will be healthy by the beginning of the week.”

“Be it so.  Yet I am full of your trouble.  Sick you are and how’s trade?”

“Very brisk.  I am opening a shop in Richmond again,” John said.

“You’re learning me something.  Don’t you think too much of that shop; Death is near and set your mind on the crossing.”

John’s lame daughter Ann halted into the room, and stepped up to the bed.

“Stand by the door for one minit, Silas,” John cried.  “I am having my chat confidential.”

From a book Ann recited the business of that day; naming each article that had been sold, and the cost and the profit thereof.

“How’s that with last year?” her father commanded.

“Two-fifteen below.”

“Fool!” John whispered.  “You are a cow, with your gamey leg.  You’re ruining the place.”

Ann closed the book and put her fountain pen in the leather case which was pinned to her blouse, and she spoke this greeting:  “How are you, Nuncle Silas.  It’s long since I’ve seen you.”  She thrust out her arched teeth in a smile.  “Good-night, now.  You must call and see our Richmond establishment.”