“That's the kind of a fambly I hev got,” Basil commented easily. “Wife an' boy an' baby all walk over me,—plumb stomp on me! Jes' enough lef of me ter play the fiddle a leetle once in a while.”
“Mighty nigh all the while, I be afeared,” Kennedy corrected the phrase. “How did yer corn crap turn out!” he asked, as he too fell into line and the procession moved on once more along the narrow path.
“Well enough,” said Basil; “we uns hev got a sufficiency.” Then, as if afraid of seeming boastful he qualified, “Ye know I hain't got but one muel ter feed, an' the cow thar. My sheep gits thar pastur' on the volunteer grass 'mongst the rocks, an' I hev jes' got a few head ennyhows.”
“But why hain't ye got more, Basil! Why n't ye work more and quit wastin' yer time on that old fool fiddle!”
The limits of patience were reached. The musician fired up. “'Kase,” he retorted, “I make enough. I hev got grace enough ter be thankful fur sech ez be vouchsafed ter me. I ain't wantin' no meracle.”
Kennedy flushed, following in silence while the musician annotated his triumph by a series of gay little harmonics, and young Hopeful, trudging in the rear, executed a soundless fantasia on the cornstalk fiddle with great brilliancy of technique.
“You uns air talkin' 'bout whut I said at the meetin' las' month,” Kennedy observed at length.
“An' so be all the mounting,” Aurelia interpolated with a sudden fierce joy of reproof.
Kennedy winced visibly.
“The folks all 'low ez ye be no better than an onbeliever.” Aurelia was bent on driving the blade home. “The idee of axin' fur a meracle at this late day,—so ez ye kin be satisfied in yer mind ez ye hev got grace! Providence, though merciful, air obleeged, ter know ez sech air plumb scandalous an' redic'lous.”