"O, Chloe!" said Tom, gently.

"Wal, I can't help it," said Aunt Chloe, hiding her face in her apron;
"I 's so tossed about it, it makes me act ugly."

The boys stood quite still, looking first at their father and then
at their mother, while the baby, climbing up her clothes, began an
imperious, commanding cry.

"Thar!" said Aunt Chloe, wiping her eyes and taking up the baby; "now
I's done, I hope,--now do eat something. This yer's my nicest chicken.
Thar, boys, ye shall have some, poor critturs! Yer mammy's been cross to
yer."

The boys needed no second invitation, and went in with great zeal for
the eatables; and it was well they did so, as otherwise there would have
been very little performed to any purpose by the party.

"Now," said Aunt Chloe, bustling about after breakfast, "I must put
up yer clothes. Jest like as not, he'll take 'em all away. I know thar
ways--mean as dirt, they is! Wal, now, yer flannels for rhumatis is in
this corner; so be careful, 'cause there won't nobody make ye no more.
Then here's yer old shirts, and these yer is new ones. I toed off these
yer stockings last night, and put de ball in 'em to mend with. But Lor!
who'll ever mend for ye?" and Aunt Chloe, again overcome, laid her head
on the box side, and sobbed. "To think on 't! no crittur to do for ye,
sick or well! I don't railly think I ought ter be good now!"

The boys, having eaten everything there was on the breakfast-table,