“Well,” said Bradley, “are you through with John?  It’s high time we wus havin’ some’n t’ eat.”

“Yes,” said his wife, with a doleful expression of countenance, “I reckon I’m through with him.  Set down in that cheer, Luke.  I’ve been talkin’ to John about his speritual welfare, an’ it’s yore time now.  We’ve got to turn over a new leaf, Luke—­me ‘n’ you has; we’ve jest gone fur enough in iniquity—­that is, you have; I’ve meant well enough all along.”

“I say!” Luke sat down uneasily and glanced at Westerfelt, who sat staring at him with an assumed look of seriousness which threatened to go to pieces at any instant.

“Yes, Luke,” went on his wife, “you’ve been my mill-rock long enough, an’ now I’m goin’ to take a new an’ a firmer stand in my treatment uv you.  We used to hold family prayer an’ ax the blessin’, an’ now our house has got to be called the dancin’-door to perdition; we’ve got to quit all that.  I’m a-goin’ to smash that jug o’ bug-juice o’ yo’r’n in the closet, an’ not another speck o’ the vile truck shall come in my house.” (She caught Westerfelt’s eye, drew down the side of her face which was next to him, and winked slyly.)

“Oh, you are!” Bradley was a picture of absolute misery.  He crossed his legs and then put his feet side by side, only to cross and recross his legs again.

“I’ve had a great awakenin’ to-day, Luke,” she went on, “an’ now I see nothin’ ahead o’ me but one solid blaze o’ glory.  John heer is convicted, an’ is goin’ to do the right thing, but I reckon he won’t have as much to undo as you who are older in wrong livin’.  That cow you traded fer with Fred Wade has to go back early in the mornin’.  You knowed the one you swapped wus mighty nigh dry, an’ ’at his’n come home every night with ’er bag so loaded she could hardly take a step without trippin’ up—­the fust thing in the mornin’, mind you!  I want you to git the Book right now, too, an’ read some, an’ let’s begin family worship.  Thar it is on the sewin’-machine; I’ll bet you ain’t looked in it in a month o’ Sundays.”

Westerfelt was laboriously keeping a straight face, but it was waxing red as blood and his eyes were protruding from their sockets and twinkling with a merriment that was a delight to Mrs. Bradley, who kept glancing at him as she talked.

“What in the dev—­what do you mean, Marthy?” Bradley stammered.  “The cow kin go back, ef you say so, but blame—­but I’ll draw a line at home prayin’.  I ain’t fittin’, that’s all; I ain’t fittin’.”

“I know that as well as you do”—­Mrs. Bradley wiped a smile from her face and winked at Westerfelt—­“but this blessed Sabbath is a good time to begin.  Git the Book, Luke!”

“I’ll not do it, Marthy; you may shout an’ carry on as much as you like, with yore sudden religious spurts, but I believe in regularity, one way ur the other.”

“Git that Book, Luke Bradley; git it, I say,” and then Westerfelt’s laughter burst from him, and he laughed so heartily that an inkling of the truth seemed forced on Bradley, who had witnessed his wife’s practical joking before.