“I guess I could support the family ef I give my mind to it;” and Mrs. Wilkins turned a flapjack with an emphasis that caused her lord to bolt a hot triangle with dangerous rapidity; for well he knew very little of his money went into the common purse.  She never reproached him, but the fact nettled him now; and something in the tone of her voice made that sweet morsel hard to swallow.

“’Pears to me you ’re in ruther a hurry to be a widder, Cynthy, shovin’ me off to git shot in this kind of a way,” growled Lisha, ill at ease.

“I’d ruther be a brave man’s widder than a coward’s wife, any day!” cried the rebellious Cynthy:  then she relented, and softly slid two hot cakes into his plate; adding, with her hand upon his shoulder, “Lisha, dear, I want to be proud of my husband as other women be of theirs.  Every one gives somethin’, I’ve only got you, and I want to do my share, and do it hearty.”

She went back to her work, and Mr. Wilkins sat thoughtfully stroking the curly heads beside him, while the boys ravaged his plate, with no reproof, but a half audible, “My little chaps, my little chaps!”

She thought she had got him, and smiled to herself, even while a great tear sputtered on the griddle at those last words of his.

Imagine her dismay, when, having consumed the bait, her fish gave signs of breaking the line, and escaping after all; for Mr. Wilkins pushed back his chair, and said slowly, as he filled his pipe: 

“I’m blest ef I can see the sense of a lot of decent men going off to be froze, and starved, and blowed up jest for them confounded niggers.”

He got no further, for his wife’s patience gave out; and, leaving her cakes to burn black, she turned to him with a face glowing like her stove, and cried out: 

“Lisha, ain’t you got no heart? can you remember what Hepsey told us, and call them poor, long-sufferin’ creeters names?  Can you think of them wretched wives sold from their husbands; them children as clear as ourn tore from their mothers; and old folks kep slavin eighty long, hard years with no pay, no help, no pity, when they git past work?  Lisha Wilkins, look at that, and say no ef you darst!”

Mrs. Wilkins was a homely woman in an old calico gown, but her face, her voice, her attitude were grand, as she flung wide the door of the little back bedroom. and pointed with her tin spatula to the sight beyond.

Only Hepsey sitting by a bed where lay what looked more like a shrivelled mummy than a woman.  Ah! but it was that old mother worked and waited for so long:  blind now, and deaf; childish, and half dead with many hardships, but safe and free at last; and Hepsey’s black face was full of a pride, a peace, and happiness more eloquent and touching than any speech or sermon ever uttered.

Mr. Wilkins had heard her story, and been more affected by it than he would confess:  now it came home to him with sudden force; the thought of his own mother, wife, or babies torn from him stirred him to the heart, and the manliest emotion he had ever known caused him to cast his pipe at his feet, put on his hat with an energetic slap, and walk out of the house, wearing an expression on his usually wooden face that caused his wife to clap her hands and cry exultingly: