"You oughtn't to go walkin' off when a body is talkin' to you. You allus do that."
"I c'n hear you, Marthy. I'm jest in the kitchen. I thought the dinner had b'iled dry."
"Are you gittin' a b'iled dinner? It smells wonderful good. What you got in it?"
"Corned beef and cabbage and onions and potatoes and turnips. I've het up a squash pie and put out some of the cider apple sauce that will spile if it isn't et pretty soon. I'll put the tea a-drawin' soon's the kittle b'iles."
Andrew's voice came into the sick room in a mechanical recitative, as if accustomed to recount every particular of the day's doings.
"Well, I guess you can bring me some of it. You bring me a piece of the corned beef and consid'able of the cabbage and potaters and an onion or two. And if that cider apple sauce is likely to spile, I might eat a little of it; bring me a cooky to eat with it. And a piece of the squash pie. What else did you say you had?"
"That's all."
"Don't forgit to put on consid'able of bread. It's a good while till supper, and I don't dast to eat between meals."
Andrew brought the tray to the bedside and propped up the invalid before he ate his own dinner. He had finished it and cleared up the table before the high voice called again: "An-ndrew!"
"Yes, Marthy."