"I wish I had something better to offer you," she said, making
haste to fetch plates and knives from the corner-cupboard, and
all the while she was keeping eye-guard over the well. "I'm
afraid the Concorders haven't left much for you to-day," she
added, with a soft sigh of regret, as though she really felt
sorry that such brave men and good soldiers had fallen on hard
times in the ancient town. At the moment she had brought forth
bread and baked beans, and was putting them on the table, a voice
rang into the room, causing every eye to turn toward Uncle John.
He had gotten down the stairs without uttering one audible groan,
and was standing, one step above the floor of the room,
brandishing and whirling his staff about in a manner to cause
even rheumatism to flee the place, while, at the top of his voice
he cried out:

"Martha Moulton, how DARE you FEED these--these--monsters--in
human form!"

"Don't mind him, gentlemen, please don't," she made haste to say,
"he's old, VERY old; eighty-five, his last birthday, and--a
little hoity-toity at times," pointing deftly with her finger in
the region of the reasoning powers in her own shapely head.

Summoning Major Pitcairn by an offer of a dish of beans, she
contrived to say, under covert of it:

"You see, sir, I couldn't go away and leave him; he is almost
distracted with rheumatism, and this excitement to-day will kill
him, I'm afraid."