THE LIFE AND DEATH OF LUCY 137 
His son roared with unseemly mirth, but the 
woman, with a look of alarm, felt of the old man’s 
wet back, and led him into the house. 
“You'll feel better soon,” she said. 
Then she glanced at the floor. 
“Why, where’s the red and blue rug? ” 
“ Tarnation—I wore it—couldn’t find my old 
coat—must ’a’ dropped it when the cat chased 
me—Martha made that rug, too. Tarnation, my 
old army pants was the blue in it.” 
“'Where’s the cows?” said young Parmalee, 
brusquely. 
The old man gestured feebly. His legs had 
grown old again now, and were trembling. 
“Up the ravine,” he said. ‘“‘ You'll hev to go 
get ’em. I won't. The cat’s by that old fell- 
down hemlock. If you see my rug, bring it 
back.” 
“ Hang your old rug,” said his son, crossly, 
stamping out. 
Fifteen minutes later he also returned, pant- 
ing. 
“Dyer git my rug?” the old man asked. 
“ Djer git all the cows—the old Jersey, too?” 
