It was about a week after Alice commenced to improve, that Phillis went to her house in the evening, after having taken charge of her for several hours, while Mrs. Weston slept.  Alice was very restless at night, and Mrs. Weston generally prepared herself for it, by taking some repose previously; this prevented the necessity of any one else losing rest, which, now that Alice was entirely out of danger, she positively refused to permit.  As Phillis went in the door, Lydia was on her knees, just finishing the little nightly prayer that Miss Janet had taught her.  She got up, and as she was about to go to bed, saw her mother, and bade her good night.

“Good night, and go to bed like a good child.  Miss Alice says you may come to see her again to-morrow,” Phillis replied.

Lydia was happy as a queen with this promise.  Aunt Phillis took her pipe, and her old station outside the door, to smoke.  Bacchus had his old, crazy, broken-backed chair out there already, and he was evidently resolving something in his mind of great importance, for he propped the chair far back on its one leg, and appeared to be taking the altitude of the mountains in the moon, an unfailing sign of a convulsion of some kind in the inner man.

“Phillis,” said he, after a long silence, “do you know, it is my opinion that that old creature,” pointing with his thumb to Aunt Peggy’s house, “is so long used to grumblin’ and fussin’, that she can’t, to save her life, lie still in her grave.”

“What makes you think so?” said Phillis.

“Bekase, I believes in my soul she’s back thar this minute.”

“People that drink, Bacchus, can’t expect nothin’ else than to be troubled with notions.  I was in hopes Aunt Peggy’s death would have made you afeered to go on sinning.  ’Stead of that, when we was all in such grief, and didn’t know what was comin’ upon us, you must go drinking.  You’d better a been praying, I tell you.  But be sure your ‘sin will find you out’ some day or other.  The Lord above knows I pray for you many a time, when I’m hard at work.  My heart is nigh breaking when I think where the drunkards will be, when the Lord makes up his jewels.  They can’t enter the kingdom of Heaven; there is no place for them there.  Why can’t you repent?  ’Spose you die in a drunken fit, how will I have the heart to work when I remember where you’ve got to; ‘where the worm never dieth, and the fire is not quenched.’”

Bacchus was rather taken aback by this sudden appeal, and he moved uneasily in his chair; but after a little reflection, and a good long look at the moon, he recovered his confidence.

“Phillis,” said he, “do you b’lieve in sperrits?”

“No, I don’t,” said Phillis, drily, “of no kind.”

Bacchus was at a loss again; but he pretended not to understand her, and giving a hitch to his uncertain chair, he got up some courage, and said, doggedly,

“Well, I do.”

“I don’t,” said Phillis, positively, “of no kind.”