He endeavored to assume an air of light-hearted, care-free innocence and sometimes overdid it a bit.  Primmie, the eagle-eyed, remarked to her mistress:  “Well, all’s I can say is that I never see such a change in a body as there is in Mr. Bangs.  He used to be so—­so quiet, you know, all the time, and he is yet most of it.  When I used to come along and find him all humped over thinkin’, and I’d ask him what he was thinkin’ about, he’d kind of jump and wake up and say, ‘Eh?  Oh, nothin’, nothin,’ Primmie, really.  Er—­ quite so—­yes.’  And then he’d go to sleep again, as you might say.  But he don’t do so now; my savin’ soul, no!  This mornin’ when I says, ‘What you thinkin’ about, Mr. Bangs?’ he says, ‘Nothin’, nothin’, Primmie,’ same as usual; but then he says, ’don’t look at me like that, Primmie.  I wasn’t thinkin’ of anything, I assure you.  Please don’t do it.’  And then he commenced to sing, sing out loud.  I never heard him do it afore and I don’t know’s I exactly hanker to have him do it again, ’cause ’twas pretty unhealthy singin’, if you ask me.  But what—­”

“Oh, now run along, run along, Primmie, for mercy’s sakes!  I never heard any one use so many words and get so little good out of ’em in my life.  Let Mr. Bangs alone.”

“I ain’t doin’ nothin’ to him.  Lord of Isrul, no!  But, Miss Martha, what started him to singin’ all to once?  If ’twas somebody else but him and I didn’t know the cherry rum was all gone, I—­”

“What?  What’s that?  How did you know the cherry rum was all gone?”

Primmie blinked and swallowed hard.  “Why—­er—­why—­er—­Miss Martha,” she stammered, “I—­I just happened to find it out—­er—­ sort of by accident.  Zach—­Zacheus Bloomer, I mean—­over to the lighthouse, you know—­”

“There, there!  Know?  Of course I know Zach Bloomer, I should think I might.  Don’t be any sillier than the Lord made you, Primmie.  It isn’t necessary.”

“Well—­well, you see, Miss Martha, Zach he was over here one time a spell ago and—­and—­ Well, we got to—­to kind of arguin’ with one another—­er—­er—­arguin’, you know.”

“Yes, I know.  I ought to.  Go on.”

“Yes’m.  And Zach he got to—­to bettin’, as you might say.  And we got talkin’ about—­er—­cherry rum, seems so.  It’s kind of funny that we done it, now I come to think of it, but we did.  Seems to me ’twas Zach started it.”

“Um. . . .  I see.  Go on.”

“Well, we argued and argued and finally he up and bet me there wasn’t a drink of cherry rum in this house.  Bet me five cents, he did, and I took him up.  And then I went and got the bottle out of the soup tureen in the closet and fetched it and showed it to him.  ‘There!’ says I.  ‘There’s your drink, Zach Bloomer,’ says I.  ’Now hand over my five cents.’  ‘Hold on, Posy,’ he says, ’hold on.  I said a drink.  There ain’t a drink in that bottle.’  ’Go ‘long,’