I must say, that, as I heard her go on, I couldn’t help askin’ myself this mathematical question, and doin’ in my mind, this little sum in figures: “Samantha, ort from ort, leaves how many? And how many to carry?” And though I answered myself, calmly and firmly, “ort,” still I realized that figures wus made to differ from each other in value and glory, from figure one, clear up to figure nine, and “orts,” unbeknown to them. And if sister Doodle wouldn’t never be killed for knowin’ too much, still she was a clever critter, and what little sense she had run to goodness, and that is more than could be said of some folks’ essense; some runs to meanness every mite of it. I was jest a thinkin’ this over, as I finished up my last pie; and I washed my hands at the sink, and went and carried ’em out, and put ’em into the oven. And, as I did so, I said, “Good-mornin’, Mr. Cypher,” in jest as friendly and sympathizin’ a way as them words wus ever said. I then went and done up the dress and veil ready for him and laid them on the table. And, thinkin’ that I must say sumthin’ to comfort him up, I says to him, in consolin’ axents, “That she was a likely wemen, and I dared presume to say, was better off than she was here.” But though my words wus said with such a good motive, he didn’t seem to like ’em, and he spoke right up, and says he: “I don’t know about that, I don’t know about her bein’ better off. It was only a year ago, last winter, that I bought her a new calico dress, and carried it home to her unexpected. And on her last sickness, she took it into her head that she could eat some chicken, and, though we had half a barrel of pork in the house, I went right out that same day and killed a hen. I done well by her, and I don’t know about her bein’ better off, I don’t know about it.” I heerd my pies a sizzlin’ over in the oven, and I hastened to their relief. And while I wus a turnin’ ’em round, Solemen took the bundle offer the table and started off. The widder, that clever criter, went to the door with him. She said sumthin’ to him, I couldn’t really hear what it wus, as I wus turnin’ my last pie, as she said it, but I heard his last words, as he went down the stept. They wus: “I feel better, widder, I feel better than I did feel.” THE WIDDER DOODLE’S COURTSHIP. It was about six weeks after Nancy Cyphers’es death. It was a lovely September mernin’, in the fall of the year when I waked up, and opened my eyes at about 5 o’clock, A. M., in the forenoon. The bedroom bein’ on the back of the house, and secure from intruders, we wusn’t never particular to lower and put down the curtains. And I could see a levely picture between the fold of snowy white cotten cloth, edged with a deep, beautiful net and fringe of my own makin’, that wus tied gracefully back on each side of the winder with a cord and tassel (also of my own makin’).