the middle of the floor, and a row of straw chairs stood around it,
on the bare, lead-colored boards. A huge bed, with a chintz top shaped
like an elephant's back, was in one corner, and a six-legged mahogany
table in another. One side of the room where the fireplace was set
was paneled in wood; its fire had burned down in the shining Franklin
stove, and broken brands were standing upright. The charred backlog
still smoldered, its sap hissed and bubbled at each end.

Aunt Merce rummaged her pocket for flagroot; mother resumed her paper.

"May I put on, for a little while, my new slippers?" I asked, longing
to escape the oppressive atmosphere of the room.

"Yes," answered mother, "but come in soon, it will be supper-time."

I bounded away, found my slippers, and was walking down stairs on
tiptoe, holding up my linsey-woolsey frock, when I saw the door of my
great-grandfather's room ajar. I pushed it open, went in, and saw a
very old man, his head bound with a red-silk handkerchief, bolstered
in bed. His wife, grandmother-in-law, sat by the fire reading a great
Bible.

"Marm Tamor, will you please show me Ruth and Boaz?" I asked.

She complied by turning over the leaves till she came to the picture.

"Did Ruth love Boaz dreadfully much?"

"Oh, oh," groaned the old man, "what is the imp doing here? Drive her
away. Scat."