When at last he was dismissed from his station in the sick room by the sinking of Baynell into slumber under the influence of the sedative administered by the surgeon, old Ephraim, succumbing both in physique and in spirit, even in gait, stumbled downstairs and took his way into the kitchen to find some talk of trifles, some stir of the familiar duties, that might enable him to be rid of his unquiet thoughts, of his dread prognostications, of his sheer terror of the future. He sunk into a wooden chair beside the stove, for the cooking of supper was already under way. He was feeling very old and weary. His countenance seemed to have collapsed in some sort, so did his usual expression of brisk satisfaction and dapper respectfulness and reserve of intelligence prop and sustain its contours. Its bony structure now seemed withdrawn. It was a sort of dilapidated mask of desolation. He drew a long sigh. And then he said:-- "Dis is a tur'ble, tur'ble world, mon!" "Dis world is a long sight better dan de nex' world for _you_!" said his wife, rancorously prophetic. "You hear _me_!" The imperious Chaney had not collapsed. Her "head-handkercher" was bestowed in a turban that had two high standing ends like tufts of feathers above her black, resolute face. Her black eyes snapped as she looked beyond him, not at him. She was stepping about, stoutly, firmly, audibly, in her Sunday shoes, for no amount of mourning materialized the lost slip-shod _chaussure_--pressed deep in the mud of the highway by wagon-wheels and the uninformed hoof of an unimaginative army mule. Uncle Ephraim gazed up in growing anxiety, not to say fright, for Aunt Chaney's mood was not suave. She suddenly paused on the other side of the stove, and, gesticulating across it with a long spoon, demanded: "You--ole--_dee_stracted--cawnfield--hand! What fur did you send _me_ fur de doctor-man?" "Whut you go fur, den?"