"That is no excuse for you taking what doesn't belong to you," she
replied severely. "If this keeps up I shall be obliged to let Delphy do
the cooking. There won't be a chicken in the hen-house by the end of the
month."

Aunt Verbeny still smoothed her apron, but her authority was shaken, and
she felt it. She gave a slow grunt of dissatisfaction.

"Dese ain't de doin's I'se used ter," she protested, and then, beneath
the undaunted eyes of Miss Chris, she melted into propitiation.

"Des' let dat ar chicken alont, Miss Chris," she said, skilfully
reducing the charge to a single offence. "Des' let dat ar chicken alont.
'Tain' no use yo' rilin' yo'se'f 'bout dat. Hit's done en it's been
done. Hit don't becomst de quality ter fluster demse'ves over de gwines
on uv er low-lifeted fowl. You des' bresh yo'se'f down an steddy like
hit ain' been fool you ef you knowed yo'se'f. You des' let dat ar
chicken be er little act uv erdultery betweenst you en me. Ef'n it's
gone, hit'll stay gone!"

Whereupon Miss Chris retreated, leaving her opponent in possession of
the kitchen floor.

But from this day forth the hen-house was locked at night and unlocked
in the morning by the hand of Miss Chris, and Aunt Verbeny's overweening
ill-temper diminished with her authority.

Miss Chris had been a beauty in her day, but as she passed middle age
the family failing seized upon her, and she grew huge and unwieldy, the
disproportion of her enormous figure to her small feet giving her an