“If you mean to say that you looked peaked when you had sore throat,” she announced, “then there's somethin' the matter with your mind or your eyesight, one or t'other. You peaked? Why, your face was swelled up like a young one's balloon Fourth of July Day. And as for bein' pale! My soul! I give you my word I couldn't scurcely tell where your neck left off and the strip of red flannel you made me tie 'round it begun.” “Don't make no difference! I FELT pale, anyhow. And I didn't eat no more'n Ros does. You'll have to give in to that, Dorindy. I didn't eat nothin' but beef tea and gruel.” “You et enough of them to float a schooner.” “Maybe I did,” with grieved dignity; “maybe I did. But that's no reason why you should set there and heave my sufferin's in my face.” “What is the man talkin' about now? I didn't heave 'em in your face. They come there themselves, same as sore throat sufferin's generally do, and if you hadn't waded around in the snow with leaky boots, because you was too lazy to take 'em to the shoemaker's to be patched, they wouldn't.” Lute drew back from the table. “It's no use!” he declared, “a man can't even be sick in peace in this house. Some wives would have been sorry to see their husbands with one foot in the grave.” “Your feet was in the cookstove oven most of the time. There! there! the more you talk the further from home you get. You started in with Roscoe and the bank and you're in the grave already. If I was you I'd quit afore I went any further. Land knows where you might fetch up if you kept on! I . . . Mercy on us! who's at the kitchen door this time in the mornin'?” Her husband, ever curious, was on his way to answer the knock already. He came back, a moment later, sputtering with excitement. “It's that Mr. butler, the Johnson over to Mr. Colton's,” he whispered. “I mean it's that Jutler--that--There, Dorindy! you see what sort of a state your hectorin' has worked me into! It's that parson critter who opens Colton's door for him, that's who 'tis. And he wants to see Ros. I tried to find out what for, but he wouldn't tell.” Even Dorinda showed surprise. She looked at the clock, “This hour of the mornin'!” she exclaimed; “what in the world--?” I hastened to the kitchen, closing the dining-room door behind me just in time to prevent Lute's following me. Johnson, the butler, was standing on the mica slab at the threshold inspecting our humble premises with lofty disdain. “Mr. Colton sent this to you, sir,” he said, handing me an envelope. “He wishes you to send a receipt by me.” I took the envelope and, stepping back out of sight, tore it open. Inside was a check on a New York bank for four thousand dollars. It was made payable to “Bearer.” With it was this brief note: Dear Paine: