'Headache, Miss Peggy,' replied Ephraim, shaking his gray locks solemnly. 'There ain't nothink like a hot oat-cake for a bad head; it do cure it wonderful, to be sure.'
'Well, it seems a queer thing to put on, anyhow,' remarked Peggy, wondering privately whether the old man would consume his remedy afterwards for tea. 'How is the rheumatism?'
'Better, Miss Peggy—gradely better since I've kept a potato in my pocket. Ah, it's a fine thing for the rheumatics, is a potato. But,' with a sly wink, 'it must be stolen, or it beant no use at all!'
'Did you steal it, then, Ephraim?' cried Peggy with thrilling interest.
'That's as may be,' replied the old man, willing to change the subject now it was growing personal. 'Is your pa keepin' well these days?'
'The Catechism says it's wrong to steal,' observed the righteous Peggy, keeping sternly to the point, and anxious to improve the occasion. 'Haven't you got a Bible, Ephraim?'
'Ay, ay,' returned the culprit evasively, 'there be one somewheres.'
'Don't you know where it is?' said Peggy severely.
'Oh ay! Hannah Jones was in a' Saturday, sidin' th' top o' th' cupboard, and I see'd her wi' it in her hand. Oh, I reads the Bible, I does. It's all about wars—them Israelites foightin' wi' the other heathen.'
'It's about something else, too,' replied Peggy: 'miracles and parables and epistles, and—oh! lots of things. Wouldn't you like me to read some to you?'