I had retired at night, very weary, with the delicious consciousness that
it wouldn't make any difference when I woke up the next morning, or
whether, indeed. I woke at all. So I opened my eyes leisurely and lay
half-dreaming, half-meditating on a variety of things.
I deciphered a few of the texts on the scriptural patch-work quilt which
covered my couch. There were--"Let not your heart be troubled," "Remember
Lot's wife," and "Philander Keeler," traced in inky hieroglyphics, all in
close conjunction.
Finally, I reached out for my watch, and, having ascertained the time of
day, I got up and proceeded to dress hastily enough, wondering to hear no
signs of life in the house.
I went noiselessly down the stairs. All was silent below, except for the
peaceful snoring of Mrs. Philander and the little Keelers, which was
responded to from some remote western corner of the Ark by the triumphant
snores of Grandma and Grandpa Keeler.
I attempted to kindle a fire in the stove, but it sizzled a little while,
spitefully, as much as to say, "What, Sunday morning? Not I!" and went
out. So I concluded to put on some wraps and go out and warm myself in
the sun.
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