“Splendid,” I said.

“That’s what Tip says.  He told me that oncet in a while when he was kind of low-down she’d git het-up and spited like, but ordinarily, he says, she’s jest a-singin’ and a-singin’ and makin’ him comf’table and helpin’ the children.  And them children!  I’m jest longin’ to see ’em.  They must be lovely.”

“From what Tip says,” I interjected.

“From what Tip says,” she went on.  “He was tellin’ me about Earl and Alice Eliza, and Pearl and Cevery and the rest of ’em.  He says it’s jest a pickter to see ’em all in bed together—­a perfect pickter.”

“A perfect picture,” said I sleepily.

“Tip must have a lovely home.  Why, he tells me they have a sewin’-machine.”

“Lovely,” said I.  “And a spring-bed.”

“And a double-heater stove,” said she.

“And an accordion,” said I.

“And a washin’-machine,” said she.

“And two hogs.”

“And he tells me he’s going to git her a melodium.”

“Indeed,” said I.  “Why, I thought he was never going back.”

“To sech a lovely home?” The old woman held up her hands.  “He’s goin’ jest as soon as he gets that me-yule and you’re able.”  She laid her hand on my forehead.  “There,” she cried, “it’s painin’ you again, poor thing—­that terrible spot.”

It was hurting, despite the Modern Miracle, and I closed my eyes to bear it better.  Over me, away off, as if from the heavens, I heard a sonorous rumble of mystery words.  I felt a hand softly stroking my brow.  But I didn’t care.  It was only Dutch, a foolish charm, a heritage of barbarity and ignorance, but I was too weary to protest.  It entertained John Shadrack’s widow, and I was going to sleep.

Tip was waiting for me to awake.

“I’ve got the mule,” he said, when I opened my eyes, “and I thought you was never goin’ to quit sleepin’; I thought the widder was joshin’ me when she said you was all right; I thought mebbe she had drumpt it, she sees so much in dreams.”

“What day is this?” I asked.

“Sunday,” Tip answered.  “I ’low we’ll start at daybreak to-morrow, and by sundown we’ll be in Six Stars.”

“In Six Stars!” said I.  “I thought you’d left Six Stars forever.”

“That ain’t here nor there,” he snapped.  “I’ve got to git you back.”

“Then you won’t go to-morrow,” said I.  “Look here—­I can just lift my hands to my head—­that’s all.  It’ll take a whole week’s powwowing to get me to sit up even.”

“What did I tell you, Tip?” cried John Shadrack’s widow.  She handed me a piece of gingerbread just to chew on till she got some breakfast for me, and while I munched it, Tip and I argued it out.

“Nanny’ll think I’ve left her,” Tip said.

“You did, Tip,” said I.  “You ran away forever.”

“She’ll be gittin’ married agin,” pleaded Tip.

“Serves you right,” said I. Then, to myself, “Not unless the other man’s an utter stranger.”