Mart seemed on the verge of a fit himself,
and I waited apprehensively for each
snorting climax to see if fits were a family
failing. They were not. Peace overcame
Mart and he slept deeply, but not I. The
hired man began to show symptoms. He
would roll and groan, dreaming of feuds,
_quorum pars magna fuit_, it seemed, and
of religious conversion, in which he feared
he was not so great. Twice he said aloud:

``An' I tell you thar wouldn't a one of
'em have said a word if I'd been killed
stone-dead.'' Twice he said it almost
weepingly, and now and then he would
groan appealingly:

``O Lawd, have mercy on my pore
soul!''

Fortunately those two tired girls slept--
I could hear their breathing--but sleep
there was little for me. Once the troubled
soul with the hoe got up and stumbled out
to the water-bucket on the porch to soothe
the fever or whatever it was that was
burning him, and after that he was quiet.
I awoke before day. The dim light at the
window showed an empty bed--Buck and
the hired man were gone. Mart was slipping