He was delerious, and I see that he was. But Elder Judas Wart kep’ right on, with a haughty, proud axent:
“He seemed then to look favorably upon the widder I have lately espoused. The Widder Bump; don’t you remember her?”
“No! I don’t remember no such widder, and I don’t believe there was any by that name.”
“Why,” says I, “Josiah Allen, she made that coat you have got on. Don’t you remember it?”
“No! I don’t! She didn’t make it! It wuzn’t made! I never had none.”
“Why, Josiah Allen,” says I, “what will become of you if you tell such stories?”
“There won’t nothin’ become of me, nor never will; there never has nothin’ become of me.”
But jest as he said this, the stitch ketched him agin powerful and strong, and he sunk down on the lounge, a groanin’ violent.
I see he was delerious with pain of body, and fur deeper, more agonizin’ pain of mind, contrition, shame, remorse, and various other emotions.
And then, oh, the strength and power of woman’s love! As that man lay there, with all his past weakness and wickedness brought out before me, stricken with agony, remorse, and stitches, I loved him, and I pitied him. I felt that devoted, yearnin’, tender feelin’ for him to that extent that I felt in my heart that if it were possible I could take that stitch upon me, and bear it onward myself, and relieve my pardner. Women’s love is a beautiful thing, a holy thing, but curious, very.