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Cyrus Pendleton sat by the kitchen fire, his stockinged feet, in the oven, and his; hands stretched out toward the kettles, which were bubbling prosperously away, and puffing a cloud of steam, into his face. He was a meagre, sad-colored man, with mutton-chop whiskers so thin as to lie like a shadow on his fallen cheeks; and his glance, wherever it fell, Seemed to deprecate reproof. Thick layers of flannel swathed his throat, and from time to time, he coughed wheezingly, with the air of one who, having a cold, was determined to be conscientious about it. A voice from the buttery began pouring forth words only a little slower than the blackbird sings, and with no more reference to reply.

“Cyrus, don’t you feel a mite better? Though I dunno how you could, expect to, arter such a night as you had on’t, puffin’ an’ blowin’!” Mrs. Pendleton followed the voice. She seemed to be borne briskly in on its wings, and came scudding over the kitchen sill, carrying a pan of freshly sifted flour. She set it down on the table, and began “stirrin’ up.” “I dunno where you got such a cold, unless it’s in the air,” she continued. “Folks say they’re round, nowadays, an’ you ketch ’em, jest as you would the mumps. But there! nobody on your side or mine ever had the mumps, as long as I can remember. Except Elkanah, though! an’ he ketched ’em down to Portsmouth, when he went off on that fool’s arrant arter elwives. Do you s’pose you could eat a mite o’ fish for dinner?”

“I was thinkin’–” interposed Cyrus, mildly; but his wife swept past him, and took the road.

“I dunno’s there’s any use in gittin’ a real dinner, jest you an’ me, an’ you not workin’ either. Folks say there’s more danger of eatin’ too much’n too little. Gilman Lane, though, he kep’ eatin’ less an’ less, an’ his stomach dried all up, till ‘twa’n’t no bigger’n a bladder. Look here, you! I shouldn’t wonder a mite if you’d got some o’ them stomach troubles along with your cold. You ‘ain’t acted as if you’d relished a meal o’ victuals for nigh onto ten days. Soon as I git my hands out o’ the flour, I’ll look in the doctor’s book, an’ find out. My! how het up I be!” She wiped her hands on the roller towel, and unpinned the little plaid shawl drawn tightly across her shoulders, Its removal disclosed a green sontag, and under that manifold layers of jacket and waist. She was amply protected from the cold. “I dunno’s I ought to ha’ stirred up rye’n’ Injun,” she went on, returning to her vigorous tossing and mixing at the table. “Some might say the steam was bad for your lungs. Anyhow, the doctor’s book holds to’t you’ve got to pick out a dry climate, if you don’t want to go into a decline. Le’ me see! when your Aunt Mattie was took, how long was it afore she really gi’n up? Arter she begun to cough, I mean?”

Cyrus moved uneasily.

“I dunno,” he said, hastily. “I never kep’ the run o’ such things.”

But Mirandy, pouring her batter into the pan, heeded him no more than was her wont.

“I s’pose that was real gallopin’ consumption,” she said, with relish.” I must ask Sister Sarah how long ’twas, next time I see her. She set it down with the births an’ deaths.”

Cyrus was moved to some remonstrance. He often felt the necessity of asserting himself, lest he should presently hear his own passing-bell and epitaph.

“I guess you needn’t stop steamin’ bread for me! I ain’t half so stuffed up as I was yisterday!”

Mrs. Pendleton clapped the loaf into the pot, wrinkling her face over the cloud of steam that came puffing into it.

“There!” she exclaimed. “Now perhaps I can git a minute to se’ down. I ain’t bound a shoe to-day. My! who’s that out this weather?”