“Well, to make a long yarn short, the Kill-Smudge done the bus'ness. Kenelm stuck to smokin' till he couldn't read a cigar sign without his ballast shiftin', and then he give it up. And—as you might expect from that kind of a man—he was more down on tobacco than the Come-Outer parson himself. He even got up in revival meetin' and laid into it hammer and tongs. He was the best 'horrible example' they had, and Hannah was so proud of him that she couldn't sleep nights. She still stuck to the Kill-Smudge, though—layin' in a fresh stock every once in a while—and she dosed the tea about every other day, so's her brother wouldn't run no danger of relapse. I'm 'fraid Kenelm didn't get any too much joy out of his meals.
“And so everything was all right—'cordin' to Hannah's reckonin'—and it might have stayed all right if she hadn't took that trip to Washington. Etta Ellis was goin' on a three weeks' cut-rate excursion, and she talked so much about it, that Hannah got reckless and fin'lly said she'd go, too.
“The only thing that worried her was leavin' Kenelm. She hated to do it dreadful, but he seemed tame enough and promised to change his flannels if it got cold, and to feed the cat reg'lar, and to stay to home, and one thing and another, so she thought 'twas safe to chance it. She cooked up a lot of pie and frosted cake, and wrote out a kind of time-table for him to eat and sleep by, and then cried and kissed him good-by.
“The first three days after she was gone Kenelm stayed 'round the house and turned in early. He was feelin' fine, but 'twas awful lonesome. The fourth day, after breakfast, he had a cravin' to smoke. Told me afterward it seemed to him as if he MUST smoke or die of the fidgets. At last he couldn't stand it no longer, but turned Hannah's time-table to the wall and went out for a walk. He walked and walked and walked. It got 'most dinner time and he had an appetite that he hadn't had afore for months.
“Just as he was turnin' into the road by the schoolhouse who should come out on the piazza of the house on the corner but Abbie Larkin. She'd left the door open, and the smell of dinner that blew through it was tantalizin'. Abbie was dressed in her Sunday togs and her hair was frizzed till she couldn't wrinkle her forehead. If the truth was known, I cal'late she'd seen Kenelm go past her house on the way downtown and was layin' for him when he come back, but she acted dreadful surprised.
“'Why, Mr. Parker!' says she, 'how DO you do? Seems's if I hadn't seen you for an age! Ain't it dreadful lonesome at your house now your sister's away?'
“Kenelm colored up some—he always h'isted danger signals when women heave in sight—and agreed that 'twas kind of poky bein' all alone. Then they talked about the weather, and about the price of coal, and about the new plush coat Cap'n Jabez Bailey's wife had just got, and how folks didn't see how she could afford it with Jabez out of work, and so on. And all the time the smell of things cookin' drifted through the doorway. Fin'lly Abbie says, says she:
“'Was you goin' home, Mr. Parker?'
“'Yes, ma'am,' says Kenelm. 'I was cal'latin' to go home and cook somethin' for dinner.'
“'Well, there, now!' says Abbie. 'I wonder why I didn't think of it afore! Why don't you come right in and have dinner with me? It's ALL ready and there's plenty for two. DO come, Mr. Parker, to please ME!'