"The trooth is, Missis Tutt," I says, "pore Dave's got heart disease, an' is booked to cash in any moment.

I can't say when he'll die exactly; the only shore thing is he can't survive a year." She sheds torrents of tears; an' then I warns her she mustn't let Dave see her grief or bushwhack anything but smiles on her face, or mightly likely it'll stop his clock right thar.

"Can't nothin' be done for Dave ?" she asks.

"Nothin'," I replies, "except be tender an' lovin' an' make Dave's last days as pleasant an' easy as you can.

We must jump in an' smooth the path to his totterin' moccasins with gentleness an' love," I says, "an' be ready, when the blow does fall, to b'ar it with what fortitoode we may." That's all I tells her.