Mr. Ronald made a clucking sound, and the bunch separated sluggishly, proving itself to be two very thoroughly whitewashed hens. Martha stared a moment aghast. Then gradually, as the truth dawned upon her, her broad shoulders began to shake. "The joke’s on you, Martha!" Mr. Ronald said, smiling quizzically. Martha turned grave in a moment. "Beggin’ your pardon, sir," she returned, "I’m afraid it’s on the _hens_. But, what’ll I do to Sammy? He’s a young villain, o’ course, only I ain’t a leg to stand on, for to punish’m. He’s just been mindin’ his mother." "’And the moral of that is,’ as Alice would say, that even obedience can sometimes be too complete," observed Mr. Ronald with relish. Whatever misgivings young Sam might have entertained, nothing in his mother’s demeanor, when she, Miss Claire, and Lord Ronald arrived at the Lodge a little while later, seemed to justify them. Perhaps she hadn’t seen the hens. Perhaps the hens had licked or lapped the whitewash off, an inspiration derived from his experience with Flicker, the dog, and Nixcomeraus, the cat. In any case, Mrs. Slawson was apparently undisturbed, standing by (young Sam noticed his mother never sat in the presence of ladies and gentlemen "like Mr. and Mrs. Ronald, Dr. Ballard, or Miss Katherine") as Miss Claire inquired after Ma’s health. "Fair-rly, fair-rly, thank you kindly," the old woman was responding, "I’m thryin’ a new remidy, now, an’ I think it’s goin’ to help me. Ol’ Mis’ Harris says, ’no matther who ye a-are, or what ails ye, if ye get a nutmeg, an’ bore a hole through’t, an’ string it on a white-silk t’read, an’ a black-silk t’read, an’ hang’t ’round your neck, ye’ll be surprised,’ ol’ Mis’ Harris says." "I’d be surprised anyhow," observed Martha. "I’m always surprised." "And you like living up here?" Mrs. Ronald gently put to the old woman. "Well, tolerabl’, tolerabl’. I don’t mind the livin’ in it, as ye might sa’, but——" "Ma means, as long as she lives she’ll never die in the country," Martha supplied. "Well, if it comes to dyin’ itself, I’d rather die where there was moar to be folla’in’ me. I sa’ to me son Sammy’s wife, often an’ often, ’When I die don’t ye go to anny gr’reat expense for me funerll. I should want ye lay me out decent, but plain, an’——’" Martha shrugged good-naturedly. "An’ I always answer back, ’Don’t ye trouble yourself. In such cases they ain’t accustomed to consult the corpse.’" "But you’re not thinking of dying yet," Claire said. "I’m sure you’re not." The old woman shook her head. "No, I don’t wanta die—not while the sun shines so bright, an’ the evenin’ star’s so pretty."