“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.”
“Why, Aurely, hesh up,” exclaimed her husband, startled from his wonted leniency. “I hev never hearn ye talk in sech a key,—yer voice sounds plumb out o' tune. I be plumb sorry, Jube, ez I spoke ter you uns 'bout a meracle at all. But I frar consider'ble nettled by yer words, ye see,—'kase I know I be a powerful, lazy, shif'less cuss——”
“Ye know a lie, then,” his helpmate interrupted promptly.
“Why, Aurely, hesh up,—ye—ye— woman, ye!” he concluded injuriously. Then resuming his remarks to Kennedy, “I know I do fool away a deal of my time with the fiddle——”