“'Member when I was a little shaver,” he remarked, with an effort at amiability, “my sisters kicked about havin' to bake the cakes, on account of the hot stove makin' their faces red an' spoilin' their complexions, an' they wanted specially to go to some fandango or other, an' look their pootiest, an' so father sent us boys out into the kitchen to bake 'em instid. Old Lorenzo Dow, the Methodist preacher, was stoppin' over-night at our house, an' mother was jest beside herself to have everything go off ship-shape—an' then them cakes begun comin' in. Fust my brother William, he baked one the shape of a horse, an' then Josh, he made one like a jackass with ears as long as the griddle would allow of lengthwise, and I'd got jest comfortably started in on one that I begun as a pig, an' then was going to alter into a ship with sails up, when father, he come out with a hold-back strap, an'—well—mine never got finished to this day. Mother, she was mortified most to death, but old Dow, he jest lay back and laughed—laughed till you'd thought he'd split himself.” “It was from Lorenzo Dow's lips that I had my first awakening call unto righteousness,” said Jee Hagadorn, speaking with solemn unction in high, quavering tones. The fact that he should have spoken at all was enough to take even the sourness out of M'rye's cakes. Abner took up the ball with solicitous promptitude. “A very great man, Lorenzo Dow was—in his way,” he remarked. “By grace he was spared the shame and humiliation,” said Hagadorn, lifting his voice as he went on—“the humiliation of living to see one whole branch of the Church separate itself from the rest—withdraw and call itself the Methodist Episcopal Church, South, in defence of human slavery!” Esther, red-faced with embarrassment, intervened peremptorily. “How _can_ you, father!” she broke in. “For all you know he might have been red-hot on that side himself! In fact, I dare say he would have been. How on earth can _you_ know to the contrary, anyway?”