Still further, Cousin Bill J. could throw his thumbs out of joint, sing tenor in the choir, charm away warts, recite “Roger and I” and “The Death of Little Nell,” and he knew all the things that would make boys grow fast, like bringing in wood, splitting kindling, putting down hay for the cow, and other out-of-door exercises that had made him the demon of strength he once was.  The little boy was not only glad to perform these acts for his own sake, but for the sake of lightening the labours of his hero, who wrenched his back anew nearly every time he tried to do anything, and was always having to take a medicine for it which he called “peach-and-honey.”  The little boy thought the name attractive, though his heart bled for the sufferer each time he was obliged to take it; for after every swallow of the stuff he made a face that told eloquently how nauseous it must be.

As for the satire and wit of Cousin Bill J., they were of the dry sort.  He would say to one he met on the street when the mud was deep, “Fine weather overhead”—­then adding dryly, after a significant pause—­“but few going that way!" Or he would exclaim with feigned admiration, when the little boy shot at a bird with his bow and arrow, “My! you made the feathers fly that time!”—­then, after his terrible pause—­"only, the bird flew with them.”  Also he could call it “Fourth of Ju-New-Years” without ever cracking a smile, though it cramped the little boy in helpless laughter.

Altogether, Cousin Bill J. was a winning and lovely character of merits both spiritual and spectacular, and he brought to the big house an exotic atmosphere that was spicy with delights.  The little boy prayed that this hero might be made again the man he once was; not because of any flaw that he could see in him—­but only because the sufferer appeared somewhat less than perfect to himself.  To Bernal’s mind, indeed, nothing could have been superior to the noble melancholy with which Cousin Bill J. looked back upon his splendid past.  There was a perfect dignity in it.  Surely no mere electric belt could bring to him an attraction surpassing this—­though Cousin Bill J. insisted that he never expected any real improvement until he could save up enough money to buy one.  He showed the little boy a picture cut from a newspaper—­the picture of a strong, proud-looking man with plenteous black whiskers, girded about with a wide belt that was projecting a great volume of electricity into the air in every direction.  It was interesting enough, but the little boy thought this person by no means so beautiful as Cousin Bill J., and said so.  He believed, too, though this he did not say, from tactful motives, that it would detract from the dignity of Cousin Bill J. to go about clad only in an electric belt, like the proud-looking gentleman in the picture—­even if the belt did send out a lot of electric wiggles all the time.  But, of course, Cousin Bill J. knew best.  He looked forward to having his father meet this new hero—­feeling that each was perfect in his own way.