and came out with a basin of corn-meal dough, followed by Sampson
bearing an axe and Aunt Verbeny jingling the hen-house keys. The slow
procession then filed out to the space before the hen-house, the door of
which was flung back, while Aunt Verbeny clucked at a little distance.
Miss Chris scattered her dough upon the ground and, while her
unsuspecting beneficiaries made their morning meal, she pointed out to
Sampson, the executioner, the members of the feathered community
destined to be sacrificed to the carnivorous habits of their fellow
mortals.

"Feel that one with the black spots, Sampson," she said with the
indifference of an abstract deity. "Is it fat? And the domineca pullet,
and the two roosters we bought from Delphy."

And when Sampson had seized upon the victims of the fiat she turned to
inspect the bunches of fowls offered by neighbouring breeders.

To-day it was Nicholas Burr who stood patiently in the background, three
drooping chickens in each hand, their legs tied together with strips of
a purple calico which Marthy was making into a dress for Sairy Jane.

Seeing that Miss Chris had delivered her judgments, he came forward and
proffered his captives with an abashed demeanour.

"How much are they worth?" asked Miss Chris in her cheerful tones, while
Aunt Verbeny gave a suspicious poke beneath one of the flapping wings,
followed by a grunt of disparagement.

Nicholas stammered confusedly: