“Oh, no, it was the custom of their race and time.”

“Well!” with a heartfelt sigh, “I’m glad times have changed, that’s all I’ve got to say.  Goin’ to cow meetin’ would be too much for me!  Mr. Bangs, where did you get that bug thing?”

“I found it at a place called Saqqarah, in Egypt.  It was in a tomb there.”

“A tomb!  What was you doin’ in a tomb, for the land sakes?”

“I was opening it, looking for mummies and carvings, statues, relics, anything of the kind I might find.  This scarab was in a ring on the finger of the mummy of a woman.  She was the wife of an officer in the royal court.  The mummy case was excellently preserved and when the mummy itself was unwrapped—­”

“Wait a minute!  Hold on just another minute, won’t you, Mr. Bangs?  You’re always talkin’ about mummies.  A mummy is a—­a kind of an image, ain’t it?  I’ve seen pictures of ’em in them printed report things you get from that Washin’ton place.  An image with funny scrabblin’ and pictures, kind of, all over it.  That’s a mummy, ain’t it, Mr. Bangs?”

“Why, not exactly, Primmie.  A mummy is—­”

He proceeded to tell her much concerning mummies.  From that he went on to describe the finding of the particular mummy from whose finger the scarab had been taken.  Miss Cash listened, her mouth and eyes opening wider and wider.  She appeared to be slowly stiffening in her chair.  Galusha, growing interested in his own story, was waxing almost eloquent, when he was interrupted by a gasp from his listener.  She was staring at him, her face expressing the utmost horror.

“Why, dear me, Primmie, what is it?” he begged.

Primmie gasped again.  “And you set there,” she said, slowly, “and tell me that you hauled that poor critter that had been buried six thousand years out of—­of—­ My Lord of Isrul!  Don’t talk no more to me now, Mr. Bangs.  I sha’n’t sleep none this night!” She marched to the door and there, turning, looked at him in awe-stricken amazement.

“And to think,” she said, slowly, “that I always cal’lated you was meek and gentle and—­and all like that—­as Moses’s grandmother.  Well, it just shows you can’t tell much by a person’s looks.  Haulin’ ’em out of their graves and—­and unwrappin’ ’em like—­like bundles, and cartin’ ’em off to museums.  And thinkin’ no more of it than I would of—­of scalin’ a flatfish.  My savin’ soul!”

She breathed heavily once more and departed.  That evening she came to her mistress with a new hint concerning the reason for the Bangs’ absent-mindedness.

“It’s his conscience,” she declared.  “He’s broodin’, that’s what he’s doin’.  Broodin’ and broodin’ over them poor remains in the showcases in the museums.  He may be a good man; I don’t say he ain’t.  He’s just lovely now, and that’s why his conscience keeps a-broodin’, poor thing.  Oh, I know what I’m talkin’ about, Miss Martha.  You ask him some time where he got that bug thing—­a Arab, he calls it—­that he wears on his watch chain.  Just ask him.  You’ll hear somethin’ then, I bet you!  Whew!”