Mrs. Slogan sank back on the bench of the loom, but she didn’t set the thing in motion; she had an idea that the slightest sound might draw the attention of the bustling inmate of the room across the passage, and just then she was not prepared to exchange greetings.

Peter stood at the window, his head now enveloped in smoke, and kept peering out at the porch from which Mrs. Dawson was moving the various articles pertaining to her bed, such as slats, posts, railings, mattress, pillows, sheets, and coverings.

“She’s as busy as a hoss’s tail in fly-time,” he observed.  “Oh, Lawsy mercy!”

This last ejaculation came out with such startled emphasis that his wife let her mouth fall open as she waited for him to explain.  But Peter only stretched his neck towards the window, holding his pipe behind him to keep from setting fire to the curtain.

“Oh, Peter, what is it?”

“She hain’t fetched a sign of a thing to cook with,” he replied.  “I kinder thought I heerd a clatter in that wagon as it driv’ off; she’s give ‘er coffee-pot an’ fryin’-pan an’ dishes to the feller that fetched ‘er over heer an’ moved ’er things.  She intends to eat with us.”

Mrs. Slogan wrung her hands.  “Something jest has to be done,” she said, “an’ the Lord knows I don’t know what it is.  Do you reckon she’s dangerous, Peter?”

“She’s yore sister, Clariss,” he chuckled, in spite of the gravity of the situation, “an’ I’d hate to be in yore re’ch ef you wus to lose any more uv yore mind.  As it is, you—­”

“I wish you’d shet up!” broke in his wife; “this ain’t no time fer foolishness.”

Then they drew their chairs up to the fireplace and sat down.  They could still hear the old woman moving about, setting things to rights in her room.  Suddenly there was a great clatter of falling slats.  The bed had come down.

“She can’t put that thing up by ‘erself” suggested Peter.  “Go in an’ he’p ’er.”

“I’ll do no sech a thing; do you reckon I want ’er to scratch my eyes out?  Huh!  She hates me like a rattlesnake, an’ has jest come heer so she kin devil me to death.  I see it now.  She seed she wusn’t worryin’ me much over thar in ‘er ol’ cabin, an’ she’s jest bent on gittin’ nigher.”

“I reckon that’s jest yore—­yore conscience a-talkin’,” opined Slogan.  “Thar’s no gittin’ round it, Clariss, you did sorter rub it in when Sally wus alive.  I often used to wonder how the old creetur managed to put up with it; you kept ding-dongin’ at ‘er frum mornin’ to night.  Ef she’s cracked, yo’re purty apt to have it read out to you frum the Book o’ Judgment.”

Mrs. Slogan must have felt the truth of this accusation, for she voiced no denial.  The room across the passage suddenly became quiet.  It was evident that the bed was up; as a further evidence of this, Mrs. Dawson was seen to go out to the wood-pile and fill her apron with chips and return with them.