"Yes, it's you I want to represent me after I'm gone," he said, affectionately stroking her hand. "You, with all your faults. My fancy has run after you ever since you were a dumpling of a girl, with your hair switching down your back, and I'm not going to lose you a third time. I'm sorry you've had such a long spell of this confounded hypocrite business, but I'll knock it all out of you. A little trip around the world, and a little taste of a few devilries, will make you have more pity for your fellow creatures, and you'll save your own soul quicker than you're likely to do now. You've always pretended to be religious, Hippolyta. You've never enjoyed it, you want to be converted all over again. It's hateful, narrow-minded saints like you that keep broad-minded sinners like me out of the kingdom. Do you suppose I'd go into a church with such as you?--not by a long shot. You've got to be made over. I'll help you sow some wild oats, and in the act of reaping maybe you'll repent." Mrs. Prymmer could not answer him, neither could she lift her head from the table. However, the sense of what he said pierced her clouded brain, and she faintly returned the pressure of his hand. "That old Prymmer spoiled you," he muttered, wrathfully. "You didn't put on half as much till you married him. Listen, Hippy, till I tell you the way he was converted. The old fellow was rather ashamed of it himself, because it was old-timey, but I got it from a lumberman back in the woods. You remember hearing of the time the New Lights came in and stirred up the Congregationalists?" Mrs. Prymmer moved her head. "Well, old Father Bronson, raging through the woods like a converted bear and doing lots of good, be it understood, came upon Zebedee Prymmer's father's log house. He talked conversion and damnation, and clutching up young Zeb held his little squirming carcass over the open fire and asked him how he would like to roast in the bad place. Young Zebedee naturally said he would prefer not to, and then the rascal thought he was converted, though Father Bronson never told him so. Now that's the way you've been frightened out of your seven senses. You don't want to roast, but bless you, Hippy, that ain't conversion. You want a gentle spirit like your daughter-in-law Derrice, and your son Justin. Do you suppose he could stand your naggings if he warn't a Christian? Not a bit of it,--go on now, and try to be a proper one. I'd like some religion, too. Good life,--it's all we've got here below that's worth having, except a little love from some creature-- Hippy, you'll be my little monument?" "Yes, yes," she murmured, feebly, "but, Micah, maybe I'll go first." "Then I'll be yours," he said, cheerfully. "But bless you, widows never die. Come on down-town, Hippy, and we'll choose the ring." "Micah, I couldn't walk. My limbs are as weak as wool. I guess I'll go to bed."