he knew the nature with which he had to
deal; and the occasional absences that were so necessary to Mercy's
happiness were also seasons of great refreshment to himself. During
them he felt almost, and sometimes quite, his own master. He loafed,
and smoked, and whittled, and even brought out his old fiddle and just
"played himself crazy"--so his wife declared. Even then he was already
recalling a tune he had heard a passing teamster whistle and was
longing to try it for himself. He abruptly changed his tactics.

Looking into Mercy's face with an appearance of great gladness, he
exclaimed:

"Now ain't that grand! Here was I, thinkin' of myself all alone, and
you off havin' such a good time, talkin' over old ways out East an'
hearin' all the news that's going. There. Take right off your things
an' I'll help put 'em away for you. You've got such a lot cooked up
you can afford to get out your patchwork, and I'll fiddle a bit
and----"

"Abel Smith! I didn't think you'd go and begrudge me a little
pleasure. Me, that has slaved an' dug an' worked myself sick a
help-meetin' an' savin' for you. I really didn't."

"Well, I'm not begrudging anybody. An' I don't s'pose there is much
news we hain't heard. Though there was a new family of settlers moved
out on the mill-road last week, I don't reckon they'd be anybody that
we'd care about. Folks have to be a mite particular, even out here in
Illinois."

Mercy paused, with her half-folded shawl in her hands. Then, with
considerable emphasis, she unfolded it again, and deliberately
fastened it about her plump person.

"Well, I'm goin'. It's rainin' a little, but none to hurt. I've fixed
a dose of cough syrup for Mis' Waldron's baby, an' I'd ought to go an'
give it to her. Them new folks has come right near her farm, I hear.
If you ain't man enough to look out for yourself for a few hours, you
cert'nly ain't enough account for me to worry over. But take good care
of yourself, Abel. I'm goin'. I feel it my duty. There's a roast
spare-rib an' some potatoes ready to fry; an' the meal for the
stirabout is all in the measure an'--good-by. I'll likely be back
to-night. If not, by milkin' time to-morrow morning."

Abel had taken down the almanac from its nail in the wall and had
pretended to be absorbed in its contents. He did not even lift his
eyes as his wife went out and shut the door. He still continued to
search the "prognostics" long after the cabin had become utterly
silent, not