“Waal, lies air healthy.” Mrs. Purvine accommodated her singular ethics to many emergencies. “Church-yards air toler’ble full, but thar ain’t nobody thar ez died from tellin’ lies. Not but what I’m a perfessin’ member,” she qualified, with a qualm of conscience, “an’ hev renounced deceit in gineral; but ef ennybody kems hyar inquirin’ roun’ ’bout my business,—what I done with this little mite o’ meat, an’ that biscuit, an’ the t’other pot o’ coffee,—I answer the foolish accordin’ ter his folly, like the Bible tells me, an’ send him reji’cin’ on his way.” Mink, his every fear relieved, thought it a snug haven after the storms that he had weathered, as he sat in Mrs. Purvine’s own rocking-chair, and felt the grateful warmth of the blaze. He had hardly hoped ever again to know the simple domestic comforts of the chimney-corner. The coffee put new life into him, and after he had eaten the hot ash cake and bacon, broiled on the coals, he took, at her insistence, another cup, and drank it as she sat opposite him near the hearth. In this last potation she joined him, having poured her coffee into a gourd, to save the trouble, as she explained, of washing another cup and saucer. “How do Lethe keep her health?” he asked. “Fust-rate,” said Mrs. Purvine. Her tone had changed. She looked at him speculatively from under the brim of her sun-bonnet, which she wore much of the time in the house. “She air peart an’ lively ez ever.” His lip curled slightly. He was sarcastic and critical concerning Alethea’s mental attitude,—the reaction, perhaps, of much rebuke and criticism received at her hands. “I reckon she ain’t missed me none, then?” he hazarded. “Waal, she never seen much o’ you-uns las’ summer, bein’ ez ye war constant in keepin’ company with Elviry then; though she’s missed ye cornsider’ble. Ye needn’t never ’low the gals will furgit ye, Mink,” she added graciously. “The las’ time Lethe seen Jedge Gwinnan she war a-beggin’ him fur ye,—an’ he promised, too. Lethe’s pretty enough ter make a man do mos’ ennything,—leastwise these hyar town folks think so.” The color had sprung into Mink’s face. He stood up for a moment, searching for Jerry’s tobacco on the mantelpiece. He lighted his pipe by a coal which he scooped up with the bowl, and as he put the stem between his lips he looked hard at Mrs. Purvine’s placid face, as she drank her coffee from the gourd, and meditatively swung her foot; the right knee was crossed over the left; the other foot was planted squarely upon the floor; a narrow section of a stout gray stocking was visible above a leather shoe, laced incongruously with a white cotton cord, the kitten having carried off its leather string, and Mrs. Purvine continually “disremembering,” to more properly supply its place. “Ben Doaks,—air he still thinkin’ ’bout marryin’ Lethe?” demanded Mink between a series of puffs.