"
"Peter Slogan," said his wife, in a whisper, as she laid the
table-cloth down in a chair and leaned over him, "you skeer the life
out o' me when you talk that away. I never seed you look like you
minded anything before."
"I'm glad I show some'n'," he grinned, struggling back into his old
sardonic mood. "I 'lowed I'd got too hardened to feer man, God, ha'nt,
ur devil. Well, I _don't_ keer overly much about havin' a crazy
creetur' so nigh me, an' I ain't a-goin' to, ef I kin see any way out
of it. We ain't a thousand miles from the State asylum."
Mrs. Slogan moved noiselessly as she unfolded the cloth and spread it.
She put the coffee on the table and poured the floating grounds from
the top into a tin cup.
"I'll tell you what I'll do," she proposed, timidly. "I'll fix 'er
some supper on that piece o' plank thar, an' a big cup o' coffee
sweetened jest like she used to like it, ef--" She hesitated.
"Ef what? Out with it!"
"Ef you'll take it in thar whar she's at."
Peter deliberated and cleared his throat.
"She's _yore_ sister," he got out, finally, "an' the last time I went
to 'er cabin she wouldn't listen to me no more 'n ef I wus a rat
a-squeakin'.
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