The twins were by this time busy with their forks, their eyes darting little glances at the parson, at the parson’s overloaded plate, at the ruin of the mountain. “Wind in the east,” the parson remarked. Jonathan was perturbed. “You isn’t very hearty the night,” said he. “Oh, dear me, yes!” the parson protested. “I was just about to begin.” The faces of the twins were by this overcast. “Don’t spare it, parson.” The parson gulped a mouthful with a wry face—an obstinately wry face; he could _not_ manage to control it. He smiled at once—a quick, sweet comprehensive little smile. It was heroic—he was sure that it was! And it _was_! He could do no more. ’Twas impossible to take the brewis. A melancholy—ay, and perilous—situation for a hungry man: an old man, and a dyspeptic. Conceive it, if you can! “_That_ ain’t hearty,” Aunt Tibbie complained. “To be frank,” said the parson, in great humiliation—“to be perfectly frank, I like brewis, but—” The happiness faded from Aunt Tibbie’s eyes. “—I don’t find it inspiring,” the parson concluded, in shame. The twins promptly took advantage of the opportunity to pass their plates for more. “Dyspepsey?” Aunt Tibbie inquired. “It might be called that,” Parson All replied, sweeping the board with a smile, but yet with a flush of guilt and shame, “by a physician.” “Poor man!” Aunt Tibbie signed. There was a brief silence—expectant, but not selfishly so, on the part of the parson; somewhat despairing on the part of the hosts. “Well, parson,” Skipper Jonathan said, doggedly, “all you got t’ do is _ask_ for what you wants.” “No, no!” “That’s all you got t’ do,” Jonathan persisted. “Most kind of you, sir! But—no, no!” “Please do!” Aunt Tibbie begged. But the parson was not to be persuaded. Not Parson All of Satan’s Trap—a kindly, sensitive soul! He was very hungry, to be sure, and must go hungry to bed (it seemed); but he would not ask for what he wanted. To-morrow? Well, _something_ had to be done. He would yield—he _must_ yield to the flesh—a little. This he did timidly: with shame for the weakness of the flesh. He resented the peculiarity of brewis in his particular case. Indeed, he came near to rebellion against the Lord—no, not rebellion: merely rebellious questionings. But he is to be forgiven, surely; for he wished most earnestly that he might eat brewis and live—just as you and I might have done. “Now, Parson All,” Jonathan demanded, “you just _got_ t’ tell.” And, well, the parson admitted that a little bread and a tin of beef—to be taken sparingly—would be a grateful diet. “But we’ve none!” cried Aunt Tibbie. “An’ this night you’ll starve!” “To-night,” said the parson, gently, “my stomach—is a bit out—anyhow.” Presently he was shown to his bed.... * * * * * “I ’low,” said Aunt Tibbie, when the parson was stowed away and she had caught Skipper Jonathan’s wavering eye, “he’d better have more’n that.” “He—he—he’ve just _got_ t’ have more.”