"Well, lem'me see," said Miss Samantha, counting on her fingers--"a biled mackrel, some fried bacon, two pones of corn bread--kinder forced it down." "Ur-huh--" said Jud, thoughtfully--"of course you had to drink, too." "Yes"--whined Miss Samantha woefully--"two glasses of buttermilk." Jud elevated his eyebrows "An' for dinner?" "O, Lor'. Jes' cu'dn't eat nothin' fur dinner," she wailed. "If the Company'd only get some cherry bark an' whiskey"-- "At dinner," said Mrs Carewe, stroking her chin--"we had some sour-kraut--she eat right pe'rtly of that--kinder seemed lak a appetizer to her. She mixed it with biled cabbage an' et right pe'rtly of it." "An' some mo' buttermilk--it kinder cools my stomach," whined Miss Samantha. "An' hog-jowl, an' corn-bread--anything else Maw?" "A raw onion in vinegar," said her mother--"It's the only thing that seems to make you want to eat a little. An' reddishes--we had some new reddishes fur dinner--didn't we, Samanthy?" "Good Lord," snapped Jud--"reddishes an' buttermilk--no wonder you needed that weight on your stomach--it's all that kept you from floatin' in the air. Cyant eat--O good Lord!" They were silent--Miss Samantha making wry faces with her pain. "Of course you didn't eat no supper?" he asked. "No--we don' eat no supper Sunday night," said Mrs. Carewe. "Didn't eat none at all," asked Jud--"not even a little?" "Well, 'bout nine o'clock I thought I'd eat a little, to keep me from gittin' hungry befo' day, so I et a raw onion, an' some black walnuts, and dried prunes, an'--an'--" "A few apples we had in the cellar," added her mother, "an' a huckleberry pie, an' buttermilk--" Jud jumped up--"Good Lord, I thought you was a fool when you said you put that stone on her stomach, but now I know you done the right thing--you might have anchored her by a chain to the bed post, too, in case the rock didn't hold her down. Now look here," he went on to Mrs. Carewe, "I'll go to the sto' an' send you a half pound of salts, a bottle of oil an' turbb'ntine. Give her plenty of it an' have her at the mill by to-morrow, or I'll cut off all your rations. As it is I don't see that you need them, anyway, to eat"--he sneered--"for you 'aint got no appetite at all.'" From the Carewe cottage Jud went to a small yellow cottage on the farthest side of the valley. It was the home of John Corbin, and Willis, his ten-year-old son, was one of the main doffers. The father was lounging lazily on the little front verandah, smoking his pipe. "What's the matter with Willis?" asked Jud after he had come up. "Why, nothin'--" drawled the father. "Aint he at the mill?" "No--the other four children of your'n is there, but Willis aint." The man arose with more than usual alacrity. "I'll see that he is there--" he declared--"it's as much as we can do to live on what they makes, an' I don't want no dockin' for any sickness if I can he'p it."