The little girl, kneeling on the hearth, anxiously adjusted a broom straw on the egg to see if it were done,—when, according to culinary tradition, the straw would turn; she glanced up with her charming smile showing her snaggled little teeth. “’Gustus Tom wouldn’t bide,” she declared. “Waal, now, ’Gustus Tom oughter begin ez early ez he kin,” said Mrs. Purvine. “Sech ez ’Gustus Tom hev a mighty wrastle with Satan ’fore they git grace. ’Gustus Tom hev got a long way o’ wickedness afore him. He oughter be among them in early youth convicted o’ sin an’ afeard o’ Satan.” “Naw,” said the child, sitting upright and staring steadily at the straw. “He be ’feared o’ Pete Rood. An’ he won’t bide a-nigh the church-house.” The light of the fire was on her face. Its breath stirred her bright hair. Her chubby hand hovered about the egg in the ashes. Surely the straw was turning at last. “Pete Rood is dead, Eudory,” said Mrs. Purvine, rebukingly. “In the groun’,” said Eudory unequivocally. The mention of him recalled to Alethea that momentous day of drawing the jury, the mystery of Tad’s fate, the hardships of Mink’s duress, and finally the calamity which he had brought upon himself. Alethea had taken off her bonnet, and sat down in the rocking-chair before the fire, her eyes fixed reflectively upon the great burning logs. The interior of Mrs. Purvine’s house always had a leisurely aspect; to-day it wore the added quiet and ease of Sunday stillness. It was evident that here no anxious female heart was “harried ter death,” in yearnings for the perfecting of a theory of housekeeping. Mrs. Purvine, sitting with her empty hands in her lap, once more rebuked sister Eudory, the decorums of the day giving a more stringent interpretation to her code of manners. “Ye mustn’t say ’Gustus Tom air ’feard o’ Pete Rood, ’kase he air dead.” “That’s what ’Gustus Tom say—he say don’t talk ’bout’n it.” Eudora looked up gravely. “He be wusser ’feard now ’n he war when Pete Rood war ’live.” There was a sudden hand on the latch, and ’Gustus Tom came hastily in. “Look-a-hyar, sister Eudory!” he cried remonstrantly, seizing her by the arm, “what ails ye ter let yer tongue break loose that-a-way? Shet up! Ye promised ye wouldn’t tell.” He had an excited, grave, frightened look that was incongruous with the roguish cast of his features; his torn old hat was jauntily askew; his clothes were ragged; a single suspender seemed quite adequate to support so many holes; his shoes were broken. There was a distinct deprecation and anxiety in his face more pitiable than poverty, as he looked from one to the other of the women. He was evidently wondering how much of his secrets the faithless sister Eudory had told. He could not control his fears. He broke out suddenly: “Hev she tole ’bout’n what I done?”