er, and stumble round over chairs and table and
bean-pot and wash-kittle, and maintain all spring and summer her
sight were as good as ever. Never till that day of the funeral
occasion, one year atter Evy died, did she ever give in."

Here Marthy again covered her face with her hands, and Mrs. Chilton
took up the tale:

"I can see her now, up thar on the hill-shoulder, betwixt you and
John on the front log, by Evy's grave-house, and Uncle Joshuay
a-hollering and weeping and denouncing like he does, and her setting
through it like a rock. Then finally Uncle Joshuay he thundered at
her the third time, 'Hain't it the truth, Sister Dalmanuthy, that
the judgment and the curse of God has fell on you for your
rebelliousness, like I prophesied, and that you hain't able to see
John thar or Marthy thar or the hand thar before your face thar?'
when Aunt Dalmanuthy riz up sudden, and clinched her hands, and says
slow and fierce: 'Man, it _is_ the truth you speak. The curse _has_
fell; and I hain't able to see John here or Marthy here or the hand
here before my face here. But listen what I got to say about it.
I'm able to hate and to curse as good as God. And I do! I hate and
curse the Hand that, after taking all else I loved, snatched from my
bosom the one little yoe lamb I treasured thar; I hate and curse Him
that expected me to set down tame and quiet under such cruelty and
onjestice; I hate and curse and defy the Power that hated and spited
me enough, atter darkening the light of my life, to put out the
sight of my eyes! Now,' she says, 'you lay claim to being mighty
familiar with the Lord; take that message to Him!' she says.

"Women, that whole funeral meeting kotch its breath at them awful
words, and sot there rooted and grounded; and she turnt and looked
around defiant-like with them sightless eyes, and strode off down
the hill, John and Marthy follering."

[Illustration: "Aunt Dalmanuthy riz up sudden, and clinched her
hands"]

After a somewhat protracted silence, Marthy's gentle voice resumed:

"And from that day to this John and me hain't left her sence. We
shet up our house and moved down to hern; and she tuck to setting by
the fire or out on the porch, allus a-knitting, and seldom speaking
a word in all them years about Evy or her sorrow or her curse. When
my first little gal come along, I named it Evy, thinking to give her
some easement or pleasure; but small notice has she ever showed.
'Pears like my