"Burry me!" exclaimed the woman. "Why, I ain't dead!" Demming rubbed his hands, his face wearing an indescribable expression of mingled embarrassment, contrition, and bland insinuation. "Well, yes, Bishop, yere she is, an' no mistake! Nuthin' more 'n a swond, you unnerstan'. I 'lowed ter notify you uns this mahnin', but fac' is I wuz so decomposed, fin'in' her traipsin' 'bout in the gyardin an' you all 'xpectin' a fun'al, thet I jes' _hed_ ter brace up; an' fac' is I braced up too much, an' ovahslep'. I'm powerful sorry, an' I don' blame you uns ef you _do_ feel mad!" The Bishop flung off his robes in haste and walked to the carriage, where he bundled them in with scant regard for their crispness. "Never heard of such a thing!" said Louise, that being her invariable formula for occasions demanding expression before she was prepared to commit herself. By this time a glimmering notion of the state of things had reached the coachman's brain, and he was in an ecstasy. Talboys thought it fitting to speak. He turned to Mrs. Demming, who was looking from one to another of the group, in a scared way. "Were you in a swoon?" he asked. "Oh, laws!" cried the poor woman. "Oh, Demming, what _hev_ you gwine an' done now? Gentlemen, he didn't mean no harm, I'm suah!" "You were _not_, then?" said Talboys. "Leave her 'lone, Cunnel," Demming said, quietly. "Don' yo' see she cyan't stan' no sech racket? 'Sence yo' so mighty peart 'bout it, no, she wahn't, an' thet thar's the truf. I jes' done it fur ter raise money. It wuz this a way. Thet thar mahnin', w'ile I wuz a-considerin' an' a-contemplatin' right smart how I wuz evah to git a few dollars, I seen Mose Barnwell gwine 'long,--yo' know Mose Barnwell," turning in an affable, conversational way to the grinning negro,--"an' he'd a string o' crape 'roun' his hat 'cause he'd jes done los' his wife, an' he wuz purportin' ter git a cyoffin. So I 'lowed I'd git a cyoffin fur him cheap. An' I reckon," said Demming, smiling graciously on his delighted black auditor,--"I reckon I done it." "Demming," cried the Bishop, with some heat, "this exceeds patience--" "I know, Bishop," answered the vagabond, meekly,--"I know it. I wuz tempted an' I fell, as you talked 'bout in yo' sermon. It's orful how I kin do sech things!" "And those chickens, too!" ejaculated the Bishop, with rising wrath, as new causes rushed to his remembrance. "You stole chickens,--Judge Eldridge's chickens; you who pretend to be such a stanch friend of the North--" "Chickens!" screamed the woman. "Oh, Lordy! Oh, he nevah done thet afo'e! He'll be took to jail! Oh, Demming, how cyould ye? Stealin' chickens, jes' like a low-down, no-'cyount niggah!" Sobs choked her voice, and tears of fright and shame were streaming down her hollow cheeks.