die th'n face them air women."

"Thar, thar!" soothingly spoke Angy, laying her hand on his arm. "Thar,
thar, Father! Jest think haow dretful I'd feel a-goin' deown without
yer."

"So you would!" strangely comforted. "So you would, my dear!" For her
sake he tried to brighten up. He joked clumsily as they stood on the
threshold of the chamber, whispering, blinking his eyes to make up for
the lack of their usually ready twinkle.

"Hol' on a minute; supposin' I fergit whether I be a man er a woman?"

Her love gave inspiration to her answer: "I'll lean on yer, Abe."

Just then there came the loud, imperative clanging of the
breakfast-bell; and she urged him to hurry, as "it wouldn't dew" for
them to be late the first morning of all times. But he only answered by
going back into the room to make an anxious survey of his reflection in
the glass. He shook his head reprovingly at the bearded countenance, as
if to say: "You need not pride yourself any longer on looking like
Abraham Lincoln, for you have been turned into a miserable old woman."

Picking up the hair-brush, he held it out at arm's length to Angy.
"Won't yew slick up my hair a leetle bit, Mother?" he asked, somewhat
shamefacedly. "I can't see extry well this mornin'."

"Why, Abe! It's slicked ez slick ez it kin be naow." However, the old
wife reached up as he bent his tall, angular form over her, and
smoothed again his thin, wet locks. He laughed a little, self-mockingly,