"Richard Morton!" Mrs. Yocomb began almost indignantly, "if thee hasn't any regard for thyself, thee should have some for thy friends. Thee isn't fit to leave home, and this is thy home now. Thee doesn't call thy hot rooms in New York home, so I don't see as thee has got any other. Just so sure as thee goes back to New York now, thee'll be sick again. I won't hear to it. Thee's just beginning to improve a little."
Adah looked at me through reproachful tears, but she did not say anything. Mr. Yocomb dropped his pen and came out, looking quite excited:
"I'll send for Doctor Bates and have him lay his commands on thee," he said. "I won't take thee to the depot, and thee isn't able to walk half way there. Here, Emily, come and talk reason to this crazy man. He says he's going back to New York. He ought to be put in a strait-jacket. Doesn't thee think so?"
Her laugh was anything but simple and natural.
As she said "I do indeed," Mr. Hearn had joined her.
"What would thee do in such an extreme case of mental disorder?"
"Treat him as they did in the good old times: get a chain and lock him up on bread and water."
"Would thee then enjoy thy dinner?"
"That wouldn't matter if he were cured."
"I think Mr. Morton would prefer hot New York to the remedies that Emily prescribes," said Mr. Hearn, with his smiling face full of vigilance.