went over to Jonathan Jackson's house to see what
her friend and neighbor, the Junior Warden, would say about the
matter. He could be trusted to keep silent and assist her to carry out
some provisional plans. She knew exactly what she wished and what she
intended to do; but she imagined that she wanted the pleasure of
hearing some one tell her that she was exactly right.

Jonathan Jackson was precisely the person to satisfy the demand, as
his deceased wife had never allowed him to have any opinion for more
than fifteen minutes at a time--if it differed from hers; and when she
had made a pretense of consulting him, he had learned by long
experience to hesitate for a moment, look judicially wise, and then
repeat her suggestions as nearly as he could remember them. So
Jonathan made a most excellent friend and neighbor, when any crisis or
emergency called for an expert opinion.

Mrs. Burke had been an intimate friend of Sarah Jackson, and just
before Mrs. Jackson died she made Hepsey promise that after she was
gone she would keep a friendly eye on Jonathan, and see that he did
not get into mischief, or let the house run down, or "live just by
eatin' odds and ends off the pantry shelf any old way." Mrs. Jackson
entertained no illusions in regard to her husband, and she trusted
Hepsey implicitly. So, after Mrs. Jackson's mortal departure, Hepsey
made periodic calls on Jonathan, which always gave him much pleasure
until she became inquisitive about his methods of housekeeping; then
he would grow reticent.

"Good morning, Jonathan," Hepsey called, as she presented herself at
the woodshed door, where she caught Jonathan mending some of his
underclothes laboriously.

"Well, I declare," she continued, "I'm blessed if you 'aint sewin'
white buttons on with black thread. Is anybody dead in the family, or
'aint you feelin' well as to your head this mornin'?"

His voice quavered with mingled embarrassment and resentment as he
replied:

"What difference does it make, Hepsey? It don't make no difference, as
long as nobody don't see it but me."

"And why in the name of conscience don't you get a thimble, Jonathan?
The idea of your stickin' the needle in, and then pressin' it against
the chair to make it go through. If that 'aint just like a helpless
man, I wouldn't say."

[Illustration: "I'M BLESSED IF YOU 'AINT SEWIN' WHITE BUTTONS ON WITH
BLACK THREAD. IS ANYBODY DEAD IN THE FAMILY, OR 'AINT YOU
FEELIN' WELL THIS MORNIN'?"]