She rose as she spoke, poured the gruel back into the pot, sifted and mixed a spoonful of meal and stirred it in. This done, she hesitated, glanced at the pile of mottoes, and reflected. Then with a sudden resolve she seized the milk-pitcher, filled a cup from it, poured the milk into the little pot of mush, hastily whipped up two eggs with some sugar, added the mixture to the pot, returned the whole to the yellow bowl, and set it in the oven to brown.
And just then Enoch came in, and approached the water-shelf.
“Don’t keer how you polish it, a brass lantern an’ coal ile is like murder on a man’s hands. It will out.”
He was thinking of the gruel, and putting off the evil hour. It had been his intention to boldly announce that he hadn’t taken his medicine, that he never would again unless he needed it, and, moreover, that he was going to eat his supper to-night, and always, as long as God should spare him, etc., etc., etc.
But he had no sooner found himself in the presence of long-confessed superior powers than he knew he would never do any of these things.
His wife was thinking of the gruel too when she encouraged delay by remarking that he would better rest up a bit before eating.
“And I reckon you better soak yo’ hands good. Take a pinch o’ that bran out o’ the safe to ‘em,” she said, “and ef that don’t do, the Floridy water is in on my bureau.”
When finally Enoch presented himself, ready for his fate, she was able to set the mush pudding, done to a fine brown, before him, and her tone was really tender as she said:
“This ain’t very hearty ef you’re hungry; but you can eat it all. There ain’t no interference in it with anything you’ve took.”
The pudding was one of Enoch’s favorite dishes, but as he broke its brown surface with his spoon he felt like a hypocrite. He took one long breath, and then he said: