"I'm a-thinkin', Father," she twittered, "that naow me an' yew be
a-gwine so fur apart, we be a-gittin' closer tergether in sperit than we
've ever been afore."

Abe bent down stiffly to brush her cheek with his rough beard, and then,
awkward, as when a boy of sixteen he had first kissed her, shy, ashamed
at this approach to a return of the old-time love-making, he seated
himself at the small, bare table.

This warped, hill-and-dale table of the drop-leaves, which had been
brought from the attic only to-day after resting there for ten years,
had served as their first dining-table when the honeymoon was young. Abe
thoughtfully drummed his hand on the board, and as Angy brought the
tea-pot and sat down opposite him, he recalled:

"We had bread an' tea an' apple-sass the day we set up housekeeping dew
yew remember, Angy?"

"An' I burned the apple-sass," she supplemented, whereupon Abe chuckled,
and Angy went on with a thrill of genuine gladness over the fact that he
remembered the details of that long-ago honeymoon as well as she: "Yew
don't mind havin' no butter to-night, dew yer, Father?"

He recalled how he had said to her at that first simple home meal: "Yew
don't mind bein' poor with me, dew yer, Angy?" Now, with a silent shake
of his head, he stared at her, wondering how it would seem to eat at
table when her face no longer looked at him across the board, to sleep
at night when her faithful hand no longer lay within reach of his own.
She lifted her teacup, he lifted his, the two gazing at each other over