Her first thought was of Mrs. Jessup, and the impediment that a snow-storm might prove to her return; and thus she was reminded that the pedestrian within was still, for she no longer heard the thud of his bare feet on the floor. He had fallen asleep in a corner of the hearth, with a gourd in one hand, and in the other a doll, made, after the rural fashion, of a forked twig arrayed in a bit of homespun. Tige watched him as he was borne off to his cradle with an envy that was positively human. It was for the baby’s sake that Mrs. Jessup returned the next day, despite the deep snow that covered the ground. She had had a dream about him, she declared,—a dreadful dream, which she could not remember. It had roused all the maternal sentiment of which she was capable. She had endured some serious hardship in coming to assure herself of his well-being, for she was obliged to walk much of the way up the mountain,—the snow and ice making the road almost impracticable, and rendering it essential that there should be as little weight as possible in the wagon; to a woman of her sedentary habit this was an undertaking of magnitude. After her wild-eyed inquiry, “Air Ebenezer well ez common?” she seemed to hold him responsible for the deceit of her dream, as if he were in conspiracy with her sleeping thoughts, and to be disappointed that the trouble which she had given herself was altogether unnecessary. “Ye fat gopher!” she remarked, contemptuously, eying his puffy red cheeks. “Don’t lean on me. I’m fit ter drap. Lean on yer own dinner. I’ll be bound Lethe stuffed ye ez full ez a sassidge.” She addressed herself to bewailing that she had curtailed her visit, having enjoyed it beyond the limits which the lugubrious occasion of the funeral might seem to warrant. “Mis’ Purvine war mighty perlite an’ saaft-spoken. I never see a house so fixed up ez hem air,—though I don’t b’lieve that woman hev more’n two or three hogs ter slarter fur meat this year, ef that. I slep’ in the bedroom; ’twar mighty nice, though colder’n ’twar in the reg’lar house, through hevin’ no fire. I reckon that’s what sot me off ter dreamin’ a pack o’ lies ’bout that thar great hearty catamount, fairly bustin’ with fatness. I wisht I hed bided in the cove! Mis’ Purvine begged me ter bide. We-uns went ter the fun’el tergether, an’ the buryin’, an’ we went round an’ seen my old neighbors, an’ traded ter the sto’. An’ I spun some fur Mis’ Purvine.” “Mighty little, I’ll bet,” declared her husband inopportunely, “ef what ye do hyar be enny sign.” Whereupon Mrs. Jessup retorted that she wished she had made an excuse of the snow to remain with Mrs. Purvine until the thaw, and retaliated amply by refusing to tell what hymns were sung at the funeral, and to recite any portion of the sermon.