"Now don't you go and take on, Mrs. Denover," observed Mr. Parmalee, "or you'll use yourself up, you know, and then you won't be able to travel to-morrow. And after to-morrow, and after you see your—— Well, my lady, there's the other little trip back to Uncle Sam's domains you've got to make; for you ain't a-going to stay in England and pester that poor young lady's life out?"
"No," said Mrs. Denover, mournfully—"no, I will never trouble her again. Only let me see her once more, and I will go back to my native land and wait until the merciful God sends me death."
"Oh, pooh!" said the artist; "don't you talk like that—it kind of makes my flesh creep, and there ain't no sense in it. There's Aunt Deborah, down to our section—you remind me of her—she was always going on so, wishing she was in heaven, or something horrid, the whole time. It's want of victuals more than anything else. You haven't had any dinner, I'll be bound!"
"No; I could not eat."
"Nor supper?"
"No: I never thought of it."
Mr. Parmalee got up, and was out of the room and hanging over the baluster in a twinkling.
"Here you, Jane Anne!"
Jane Anne appeared.
"Fetch up supper and look sharp—supper for two. Go 'round the corner and get us some oysters and a pint of port, and fetch up some baked potatoes and hot mutton chops—and quick about it."