“I believe, on my soul, it’s a sell,” he said, in a tone of vast relief.  “Lord, I ’lowed you’d gone plumb crazy.”

And then he was sure it was a joke, for Mrs. Bradley had her head between her fat knees, and was laughing as he had never heard her laugh before.

“I paid you back, you ol’ goose,” she said, when she could master her merriment.  “You had no business thinkin’ I’d lost my senses, jest because I cried when ‘at ol’ woman got so happy.  I was glad on John’s account, but you don’t know a bit more now than you did.  You couldn’t see a wart on yore nose ef you wus cross-eyed.”

Chapter XXI

Mrs. Dawson reached home the next day about four o’clock in the afternoon.  Mrs. Slogan was seated at her great cumbersome hand-made loom in the corner of the kitchen, weaving reddish brown jeans for Peter’s clothing.  Mrs. Lithicum and her husband were in paying a visit.  The latter and Slogan were talking over a joint hog-killing they were going to have to save labor and expense.  Peter had put a higher mental valuation on the labor saved than Lithicum.  He had discovered, on a former occasion, that the arrangement had saved him some money, and that Ab had done all the work, such as directing the black hands and keeping the water just the proper temperature to remove the bristles without “setting” them.

“You see,” Peter had remarked to his wife, “Ab works more’n I do; mebby it’s beca’se he’s a chawin’ man—­a smokin’ man has to set down to smoke to do any good, while a chawin’ man kin use both hands at any job, an’ jest squirt when an’ whar he wants to.”

Peter went to a window, while Ab was watching the movement of the loom, and looked across the fields.  Suddenly the others heard him utter an ejaculation of profound astonishment.  The loom ceased its monotonous thumping, and all eyes turned on him.

“What’s the matter?” asked Mrs. Lithicum, her round, red face full of curiosity.

“I’ll bet narry one o’ you could make a good guess.”

They knew him too well to expect information from him, so they all started for the window.  Mrs. Lithicum reached it first.  “As I’m alive!” she cried.  “Mis’ Dawson’s got back.  She’s gettin’ out uv a wagon down at ’er cabin.”

“Well, I ‘lowed she wouldn’t always be gallivantin’ about heer and yan,” said the weaver, as she peered over the shoulder of her guest.  “I reckon they’ve all got tired of ‘er over thar an’ sent ’er home.”

Mrs. Lithicum followed the speaker back to the loom.  “Well, I don’t know but I’m a leetle grain sorry,” she said.

“Sorry!” repeated the sister of the person under discussion.  “I don’t see what thar railly is to be sorry about.”

Mrs. Lithicum looked as if she had got her foot into it, and she flushed, but she had her defence ready.  “Well, you see, Mis’ Slogan, she’s tuck a most unaccountable dislike to Lizzie, an’ a pusson like—­well, some do think her trouble has sorter turned ’er brain, an’ the’s no rail tellin’ what quar notion may strike ’er.”