He never thought of doin' it in the first place, and I knew it. And I declare, I thought to myself, as I went back into the room,-- “We whip children for tellin' lies, and shake 'em for tellin' the truth. Poor little creeters! they have a hard time of it, anyway.” But when I went back into the room, I see Kezier was mad. And she said in the course of our conversation, that “she thought Cicely was too much took up on the subject of intemperance, and some folks said she was crazy on the subject.” Kezier was always a high-headed sort of a woman, without a nerve in her body. I don't believe her teeth has got nerves; though I wouldn't want to swear to it, never havin' filled any for her. And I says back to her, for it made me mad to see Cicely run,-- Says I, “She hain't the first one that has been called crazy, when they wus workin' for truth and right. And if the old possles stood it, to be called crazy, and drunken with new wine--why, I s'pose Cicely can.” “Wall,” says she, “don't you believe she is almost crazy on that subject?” Says I, deep and earnest, “It is a _good_ crazy, if it is. And,” says I, “to s'posen the case,--s'posen the one we loved best in the world, your Ebineezer, or my Josiah, should have been ruined, and led into murder, by drinkin' milk, don't you believe we should have been sort o' crazy ever afterwards on the milk question?” “Why,” says she, “milk won't make anybody crazy.” There it wuz--she hadn't no imagination. Says I, “I am s'posen milk, I don't mean it.” Says I, “Cicely means well.” And so she did, sweet little soul. But day by day I could see that her eagerness to accomplish what she had sot out to, her awful anxiety about the boy's future, wus a wearin' on her: the active, keen mind, the throbbin', achin' heart, was a wearin' out the tender body. Her eyes got bigger and bigger every day; and her face got the solemnest, curiusest look to it, that I ever see. And her cheeks looked more and more like the pure white blow of the Sweet Cicely, only at times there would be a red upon 'em, as if a leaf out of a scarlet rose had dropped dowrn upon their pure whiteness. That would be in the afternoon; and there would be such a dazzlin' brightness in her eyes, that I used to wonder if it was the fire of immortality a bein' kindled there, in them big, sad eyes.