"Yes, Marthy." "You oughtn't to go walkin' off when a body is talkin' to you. You allus do that." "I c'n hear you, Marthy. I'm jest in the kitchen. I thought the dinner had b'iled dry." "Are you gittin' a b'iled dinner? It smells wonderful good. What you got in it?" "Corned beef and cabbage and onions and potatoes and turnips. I've het up a squash pie and put out some of the cider apple sauce that will spile if it isn't et pretty soon. I'll put the tea a-drawin' soon's the kittle b'iles." Andrew's voice came into the sick room in a mechanical recitative, as if accustomed to recount every particular of the day's doings. "Well, I guess you can bring me some of it. You bring me a piece of the corned beef and consid'able of the cabbage and potaters and an onion or two. And if that cider apple sauce is likely to spile, I might eat a little of it; bring me a cooky to eat with it. And a piece of the squash pie. What else did you say you had?" "That's all." "Don't forgit to put on consid'able of bread. It's a good while till supper, and I don't dast to eat between meals." Andrew brought the tray to the bedside and propped up the invalid before he ate his own dinner. He had finished it and cleared up the table before the high voice called again: "An-ndrew!" "Yes, Marthy." "Is there any more of the corned beef? You brought me such a little mite of a piece." "Yes, there's plenty more, but I knew you'd object if I brought it first. Like it, did you?" "Yes, it was tol'able. Them vegetables was a little rich, but maybe they won't hurt me. You might bring me another cooky when you come.--Now, you set down a minute while you're waitin' for my dishes. I've ben worryin' 'bout them moths every minute since you told me, and somethin' has got to be done." "I know it. I hated to tell you, but I thought you ought to know. I guess I c'n clean 'em out the next rainy spell when I have to stay in." "No, you can't wait for that. And you can't do it anyway. There's things a man can do, and then again there's things he can't. You're uncommon handy, Andrew, but you're a man." Andrew's deprecatory gesture implied that he couldn't help it. "I've thought of that ever so much in the years that I've ben layin' here, and I've worried about what you're goin' to do when I ain't here to plan and direct for you. Those moths are jest an instance. Now, what you goin' to do when you have to think for yourself?" "I do' know, but you ain't goin' to git up a new worry 'bout that, I hope?" "No, it is not a new worry. It's an old one, but it's such a delicate subject, even between man and wife, that I've hesitated to speak of it. Andrew, I don't want you to stay single but jest six months--jest six months to the very day after I'm laid away. I've spoken to Hannah Brewster to come in and do for you twice a week, same as she does now, and to mend your socks and underclothes for six months, and then I want you to--git married." "Why, Marthy!"