“Quiet; very quiet.”
Mamma seats herself, removes her hideous bonnet, and draws a heavy breath.
“Well, I’ve done my part,” she says grimly. “Now, let Franzy do his’n.”
She goes to a shelf, takes therefrom a bottle of ink and a rusty pen.
“I wish,”—she begins, then pauses and slowly draws a folded paper from her pocket; “I wish we could git this signed first.”
Papa coughs slightly, and turns an anxious look toward the door.
“I’m afraid it wouldn’t be safe,” he says. Then he starts and turns toward the closet. “You’re sure she won’t wake up?” he whispers.
Mamma turns upon him angrily.
“D’ye s’pose I’d run any risk now?” she hisses. “She’s got a powerful dose of Nance’s quietin’ stuff. Don’t you be afeared about her. All we want is to git this business over, and that little paper signed.”
“I’m dreadful uneasy,” sighs Papa. “I wish I was sure how this thing would come out.”