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light breeze sways the curtains. Outside is a tree-shaded and vine-clad porch, with balustrade, beyond which is a tangle of flowering bushes and fruit trees in bloom. The effect is of a rich warm dawn—a sudden onset of summer weather after a bleak spring.

Beeler. (To Martha.) Is Mary up?

Martha. Yes. Wants to go out on the porch and watch the sun rise, same as she's done every Easter morning since Seth died.

Beeler. Won't hurt her, I reckon, bad off as she is.—A reg'lar old-fashioned, sunshiny, blossomy spring mornin'—summer here with a jump and fine growin' weather. (Pause.) All the same, sun might as well stay in China this Easter!

Martha. Is that why you're tackin' up them fool pictures again?

Beeler. Yes, ma'am. That's just why. Religion!

Martha. You wa' n't so sure yesterday, when you saw your wife stand up on her two dead feet and walk.

Beeler. Well, she ain't walkin' now.

Martha. No, she ain't, poor thing.

Beeler. Natural cure, natural relapse. Doctor says the new medical books explain it.

Martha. Give it a name, maybe!

Beeler. (Bursts out petulantly.) You women don't want things explained, any more'n Abe here! You prefer hocus-pocus. And nothin' will teach you. Take Rhody! Sees Michaelis flunk his job miserable. Sees Mary go down like a woman shot, hands and legs paralyzed again,—Doctor says, for good, this time. And what does the girl do about it? Spends the night out yonder laborin' with them benighted sick folks, tellin' 'em the healer will make good. Lots of makin' good he'll do! (He points at the ceiling.) A fine picture of a healer he makes.

Martha. (Looking up.) Still as a stone! I'd rather have him ragin' round same as yesterday, like a lion with the epizoötic.

Beeler. He's a dead one. Rhody might as well give up tryin' to make folks think different.

Martha. Maybe Rhody holds she's to blame.

Beeler. To blame? To blame for what?

Martha. For him a-peterin' out.

Beeler. What's she got to do with it?

Martha. Maybe she ain't got nothin' to do with it, and maybe she's got a whole lot.

Beeler. Marthy, I don't want it to get out, but you're a plum' luny sentimental old maid fool!

Uncle Abe. Mistah Beelah, 'scuse me troublin' you, but—'scuse me troublin' you.

Beeler. What is it, Abe?

Uncle Abe. It's purty brash o' me to be askin', but—Mista Beelah, fur do Lawd's sake give me that thar devil—pictuh!

Beeler. What do you want with it?

Uncle Abe. Want to hang it up in my ole cabin. (His tone rises to one of eager pleading.) Mars Beelah, you give it to me! For Gawd's sake, say Ole Uncle Abe kin have it, to hang up in his ole cabin.

Beeler. Well, if you feel as strong as that about it, Abe, take it along.

Uncle Abe. (As he unpins it with feverish eagerness.) Thank ye, Mistah Beelah, thank ye. I'll wo'k fur ye and I'll slave fur ye, long as the worl' stan's. Maybe it ain't goin' to stan' much longer aftah all. Maybe de chariot's comin' down in de fiery clouds fo' great while. An' what'll yo' ole Uncle Abe be doin'? He'll be on his knees 'fore a big roarin' fire, singing hallelujah, an' a-jammin' red-hot needles right plum' frough dis heah black devil's breas' bone! I'se got him now! I'll fix'm. (Shakes his fist at the print, as he goes toward the kitchen.) Put yo' black spell on the Lawd's chosen, would ye? I'se got ye. I'll make ye sing, "Jesus, my ransom," right out'n yo' ugly black mouf!

Beeler. There's a purty exhibition for this present year o' grace! Thinks our friend Pan there has bewitched the healer.

Martha. Maybe he has!

Beeler. Thought you said Rhody done it.

Martha. Same thing, I reckon, by all that you tell about that Panjandrum and his goin's on!