Aunt Sibylla Cradlebow accepted the lifeless phrase with something almost
like a smile of disdain in her magnificent eyes.
"Oh, it's like everything else," she whispered. "It's a mixter! It's a
mixter!"
Once the door of the little bedroom opened softly, and Emily appeared on
the scene.
"He's got most to the end of _his_ rope," she said, dryly, in answer to
the inquiring faces lifted to her own. There was an unnatural brightness
in Emily's tearless eyes, and her tone was as sprightly as ever.
"He don't see nothin', and he don't feel nothin', and he don't hear
nothin'," she continued; "and it's sech poor work a breathin', he's most
give that up, too. It might stop any minute and he not know it. Cinthy's
cryin'; I don't see nothin' to cry about. It'll storm before to-morrow,
likely--it's dark enough, Lord knows--and them east winds always hurt him
so. 'I don't know whether he's worse off, or better off, Cinthy,' says I,
'or whether he's off entirety. But I don't believe a righteous God'll
make poor 'Lihu suffer any worse than he has in the last ten weeks.' But
it's strange, all the time I was a' sittin' there by him, when he was
worst, it kept comin' up before me, jest as he was when he was a little
boy.
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