'Sence yo' so mighty peart 'bout it, no,
she wahn't, an' thet thar's the truf. I jes' done it fur ter raise
money. It wuz this a way. Thet thar mahnin', w'ile I wuz a-considerin'
an' a-contemplatin' right smart how I wuz evah to git a few dollars, I
seen Mose Barnwell gwine 'long,--yo' know Mose Barnwell," turning in
an affable, conversational way to the grinning negro,--"an' he'd a
string o' crape 'roun' his hat 'cause he'd jes done los' his wife, an'
he wuz purportin' ter git a cyoffin. So I 'lowed I'd git a cyoffin fur
him cheap. An' I reckon," said Demming, smiling graciously on his
delighted black auditor,--"I reckon I done it."

"Demming," cried the Bishop, with some heat, "this exceeds patience--"

"I know, Bishop," answered the vagabond, meekly,--"I know it. I wuz
tempted an' I fell, as you talked 'bout in yo' sermon. It's orful how
I kin do sech things!"

"And those chickens, too!" ejaculated the Bishop, with rising wrath,
as new causes rushed to his remembrance. "You stole chickens,--Judge
Eldridge's chickens; you who pretend to be such a stanch friend of the
North--"

"Chickens!" screamed the woman. "Oh, Lordy! Oh, he nevah done thet
afo'e! He'll be took to jail! Oh, Demming, how cyould ye? Stealin'
chickens, jes' like a low-down, no-'cyount niggah!" Sobs choked her
voice, and tears of fright and shame were streaming down her hollow
cheeks.

Demming looked disconcerted. "Now, look a yere!" said he, sinking his
voice reproachfully; "w'at wuz the use o' bringin' thet thar up befo'
th' ole 'ooman? She don' know nuthin' on it, you unnerstan', an' why
mus' you rile 'er up fur? I'd not a thought it o' you, Bishop, thet I
wyouldn't. Now, Alwynda," turning to the weeping woman, who was wiping
her eyes with the cape of her sunbonnet, "jes' you dry up an' stop yo'
bellerin', an' I 'splain it all in a holy minit. Thar, thar," patting
her on the shoulder, "'tain't nuthin' ter cry 'bout; 'tain't no
fault o' yourn, onyhow. Fac' is, gen'lemen, 'twuz all 'long o' my
'preciation o' the Bishop. I'm a 'Piscopal, like yo'self, Bishop, an'
I tole Samson Mobley thet you overlaid all the preachers yere fur
goodness an' shortness bofe. An' he 'lowed, 'Mabbe he may fur
goodness; I ain't no jedge,' says he; 'but fo' shortness, we've a
feller down at the Baptis' kin beat 'im outen sight. They've jes' gin
up sleepin' down thar,' says he, ''cause 'tain't worth w'ile.' So we
tried it on, you unnerstan', 'cause thet riled me, an' I j