MIS' WADLEIGH'S GUEST.


Cyrus Pendleton sat by the kitchen fire, his stockinged feet, in the
oven, and his; hands stretched out toward the kettles, which were
bubbling prosperously away, and puffing a cloud of steam, into his
face. He was a meagre, sad-colored man, with mutton-chop whiskers so
thin as to lie like a shadow on his fallen cheeks; and his glance,
wherever it fell, Seemed to deprecate reproof. Thick layers of flannel
swathed his throat, and from time to time, he coughed wheezingly, with
the air of one who, having a cold, was determined to be conscientious
about it. A voice from the buttery began pouring forth words only a
little slower than the blackbird sings, and with no more reference to
reply.

"Cyrus, don't you feel a mite better? Though I dunno how you could,
expect to, arter such a night as you had on't, puffin' an' blowin'!"
Mrs. Pendleton followed the voice. She seemed to be borne briskly in on
its wings, and came scudding over the kitchen sill, carrying a pan of
freshly sifted flour. She set it down on the table, and began "stirrin'
up." "I dunno where you got such a cold, unless it's in the air," she
continued. "Folks say they're round, nowadays, an' you ketch 'em, jest
as you would the mumps. But there! nobody on your side or mine ever had
the mumps, as long as I can remember. Except Elkanah, though! an' he
ketched 'em down to Portsmouth, when he went off on that fool's arrant
arter elwives. Do you s'pose you could eat a mite o' fish for dinner?"

"I was thinkin'--" interposed Cyrus, mildly; but his wife swept past
him, and took the road.