lone up in heaven 'thout playin' favrits,
but I can't come to agree with him. To tell you the truth,
'Lizabeth"--and here Uncle Ambrose's words sunk to a hoarse whisper--"ef
the facts be known I want my Em'ly. I done my best without her, but it
wasn't _whole_ livin' 'cept when I had her, and I ain't meanin' nothin'
in disfavour of no one else. Of course ef it's true that the Lord don't
believe in marriages in the next world, with me such a marrier in this,
then that text'll be a whole lot of assistance to me in gittin' things
fixed. For when my three wives come a-floatin' up to me as the angels
are, I'll be more'n pleased to see 'em _all_, but I got to speak up
pretty positive: 'I want my Em'ly, and there ain't no marriages nor
givin' in marriage in heaven.' For you see I marries little Sarah first
and that might give her the first claim, and Peachy last, so it's likely
she might think a last tie would bind. Seems like it wouldn't look
regular to have the three of 'em to once." And at this the speaker
smiled with a kind of appreciative vision of things to come, while at
the same time wiping his brow, which was gleaming with perspiration.

A day or so after this, having suddenly found his confinement
unendurable, Uncle Ambrose demanded to be taken outdoors, and so
wrapping him carefully in blankets Elizabeth set him out on the back
stoop to look over his little snow-covered yard, leaving the door open
that she might hear if he called to her.

And the woman was so happy now that she sang as she went about her work,
for in moving him out the old man had asked her to stay and keep house
for him so long as he should live.

Uncle Ambrose did not observe Susan Jr.'s birdlike black eyes peer
slantingly at him through her partially closed blind, for two lady
sparrows who had chosen to perch on the same twig were keeping up such a
violent discussion of their territorial rights that they held his amused
attention, so that Susan was able quietly to slip out through her front
door and into his by a surreptitious move that outflanked her enemy. But
pretty soon the old man caught the notes of her ever meddlesome voice
and then a little later the sound of monotonous weeping. He had heard
Elizabeth Horton crying one evening for two mortal hours and so was not
apt to mistake her particular sniff. At first he squirmed restlessly in
his chair, attempting to rise, but both the blankets and his reputation
as an invalid enveloped him so tha