you sick, Solomon?" she asked.

Mr. Cobb shook his head.

"Eh?" he grunted. "No, no, I ain't sick. I guess I ain't; I don't know."

"Breakfast is all ready, Mr. Cobb," suggested Emily.

Solomon turned a weary eye in her direction. He looked old, very old.

"Breakfast!" he repeated feebly. "Don't talk about breakfast to me! I'll
never eat again in this world."

Thankful pitied him; she could not help it.

"Oh, yes, you will," she said, heartily. "Just try one of those clam
fritters of Imogene's and you'll eat a whole lot. If you don't you'll be
the first one."

He shook his head. "Thankful," he said, slowly, "I--I want to talk to
you. I've got to talk to you--alone."

"Alone! Why, Emily's just the same as one of the family. There's no
secrets between us, Solomon."

"I don't care. I wan't to talk to you. It's you I've got to talk to."

Thankful would have protested once more, but Emily put a hand on her
arm.

"I'll go into the living-room with Georgie, Auntie," she whispered.
"Yes, I shall."

She went and closed the door behind her. Thankful sat down in a chair,
wondering what was coming next. Solomon did not look at her, but, after
a moment, he spoke.

"Thankful Cahoon," he said, calling her by her maiden name. "I--I've
been a bad man. I'm goin' to hell."

Thankful jumped. "Mercy on us!" she cried. "What kind of talk--"

"I'm goin' to hell," repeated Solomon. "When a man does the way I've
done that's where he goes. I'm goin there and I'm goin' pretty soon.
I've had my notice."

Thankful stood up. She was convinced that her visitor had been driven
crazy by his experience in the back bedroom.

"Now, now, now," she faltered. "Don't talk so wicked, Solomon Cobb.
You've been a church man for years, and a professor of religion. You
told me so, yourself. How can you set there and say--"

Mr. Cobb waved his hand.

"Don't make no difference," he moaned. "Or, if it does, it only makes it
worse. I know where I'm goin', but--but I'll go with a clean manifest,
anyhow. I'll tell you the whole thing. I promised the dead I would and
I will. Thankful Cahoon, I've been a bad man to you. I swore my solemn
oath as a Christian to one that was my best friend, and I broke it.

"Years ago I swore by all that was good and great I'd look out for you
and see that you was comf'table and happy long's you lived. And instead
of that, when I come here last night--LED here, I know now that I
was--my mind was about made up to t