"I want you should make over the Turnbull place to Hermie, and have him fetch Annie there as soon as ever she'll come, and let him farm it without if or but from you and me." Myron was on his feet. He looked portentously large and masterful. "You better not think o' packin' the chiny," he said, in his ordinary tone of generalship. "We can set it into baskets with a mite o' hay, and it'll get as fur as that without any breakages." His wife slipped out of her chair, and went round the table to him. She laid a hand on his arm. Myron wanted, in the irritation of the moment, to shake it off, but he was a man of dignity, and forbore. His wife was speaking in a very gentle tone, but somehow different from the one he was used to noting. "Myron, ain't you goin' to hear me?" "I ain't goin' to listen to any tomfoolery, and I ain't goin' to have anybody dictatin' to me about my own business." "It ain't your business, Myron, any more'n 'tis mine. Hermie's much my son as he is your'n, and what you bought that place with is as much mine as 'tis your'n. I helped you earn it. Myron, it's comin' up in me. I can feel it." "What is?" In spite of all his old dull certainties, he felt the shock of wonder. He looked at her, her scarlet cheeks and widening eyes. Even her pretty hair seemed to have acquired a nervous life, and stood out in a quivering aureole. Myron was much bound to his Caddie in his way of being attached to his own life and breath. A change in her was horrible to him, like the disturbance of illness in an ordered house. "What is it?" he inquired again. "What is it you feel?" "It's that," she said, with an added vehemence. "It's my double personality." Myron Dill could have wept from the surprise of it all, the assault upon his wondering nerves. "You spread up the bed in the bedroom, Caddie," he bade her, "and go lay down a spell." "No," said his wife, "I sha'n't lay down, and I sha'n't give up to you. It's riz up in me, the one that's goin' to beat, no matter what comes of it, same as old Abner Kinsman stood up ag'inst the British. Mebbe it'll die fightin', same's he did, and I never'll hear no more from it,--and a good riddance. But Myron, it's goin' to beat." Her husband was frowning, not harshly now, but from the extremity of his distress. He spoke in a tone of well-considered adjuration. "Caddie, you know what you're doin' of? You're settin' up your will in place o' mine." "Oh, no, I ain't, Myron," she responded eagerly, with an earnest motion toward him, as if she besought him to put faith in her. "It ain't me that's doin' it." "It ain't you? Who is it, then?" "Why, it's my double personality. Ain't I just told you so?"