“’Hiram, don’t yeou dew it, ef yeou’d ruther not.  I’ve stood it a gret while alone, an’ I guess I can ag’in.’

“Never yeou mind what I said or done abaout that; but we was married ten minutes arfter, ‘fore the kitchen fire, with Dr. Parr an’ oaur hired man, fer witnesses; an’ then we all went up tew aunt.  She was goan fast, but she understood what I told her, hed strength tew fill up the hole in the will, an’ to say, a-kissin’ Bewlah, ’Yeou’ll be a good wife, an’ naouw yeou ain’t a poor one.’

“I couldn’t help givin’ a peek tew the will, and there I see not Hiram Flint, nor Josiah Flint, but Bewlah Flint, wrote every which way, but as plain as the nose on yer face.  ’It won’t make no odds dear,’ whispered my wife, peekin’ over my shoulder.  ’Guess it won’t!’ sez I, aout laoud; ’I’m glad on’t, and it ain’t a cent more’n yeou derserve.’

“That pleased aunt.  ‘Riz me, Hiram,’ sez she; an’ when I’d got her easy, she put her old arms raound my neck, an’ tried to say, ’God bless you, dear—­,’ but died a doin’ of it; an’ I ain’t ashamed tew say I boo-hooed real hearty, when I laid her daown, fer she was dreadf’l good tew me, an’ I don’t forgit her in a hurry.”

“How’s Bewlah?” asked Dick, after the little tribute of respect all paid to Aunt Siloam’s memory, by a momentary silence.

“Fust-rate! that harum scarum venter er mine was the best I ever made.  She’s done waal by me, hes Bewlah; ben a grand good haousekeeper, kin kerry on the farm better’n me, any time, an’ is as dutif’l an’ lovin’ a wife as,—­waal as annything that is extra dutif’l and lovin’.”

“Got any boys to brag of?”

“We don’t think much o’ boys daown aour way; they’re ’mazin resky stock to fetch up,—­alluz breakin’ baounds, gittin’ intew the paound, and wurry your life aout somehaow ’nother.  Gals naow doos waal; I got six o’ the likeliest the is goin’, every one on ’em is the very moral of Bewlah,—­red hair, black eyes, quiet ways, an’ a mold side the nose.  Baby’s ain’t growed yet; but I expect tew see it in a consid’able state o’ forrardness, when I git hum, an’ wouldn’t miss it fer the world.”

The droll expressions of Flint’s face, and the satisfied twang of his last words, were irresistable.  Dick and Phil went off into a shout of laughter; and even Thorn’s grave lips relapsed into a smile at the vision of six little Flints with their six little moles.  As if the act were an established ceremony, the “paternal head” produced his pocket-book, selected a worn, black and white paper, which he spread in his broad palm, and displayed with the air of a connoisseur.

“There, thets Bewlah! we call it a cuttin’; but the proper name’s a silly-hoot I b’leeve.  I’ve got a harnsome big degarrytype tew hum but the heft on’t makes it bad tew kerry raound, so I took this.  I don’t tote it abaout inside my shirt as some dew,—­it aint my way; but I keep it in my puss long with my other valleu’bles, and guess I set as much stoxe by it as ef it was all painted up, and done off to keell.”