she afterwards married.  Statira remained under the shelter of the good Major’s hospitable roof much longer than her sister did, and would have been welcome to stay, but she was not one of those who like to eat the bread of dependence.  With the approval of the selectmen, she bound herself an indentured apprentice to Billy Tuthill, the little lame tailor, for whom she worked faithfully four years, until she had served out her time and was mistress of her trade, even to the recondite mystery of cutting a double-breasted swallow-tail coat by rule and measure.  Then, at eighteen, she set up business for herself, going from house to house as her customers required, working by the day.  Her services were speedily in great demand, and she was never out of employment.  Many a worthy citizen of Belfield well remembers his first jacket-and-trowsers, the handiwork of Tira Blake.  The Sunday breeches of half the farmers who came to meeting used to be the product of her skilful labor.  Thus for many years (refusing meanwhile several good offers of marriage) she continued to ply her needle and shears, working steadily and cheerfully in her vocation, earning good wages and spending but little, until the thrifty sempstress was counted well to do, and held in esteem according.  Sometimes, when she got weary, and thought a change of labor would do her good, she would engage with some lucky dame to help do housework for a month or two.  She was a famous hand at pickling, preserving, and making all manner of toothsome knick-knacks and dainties.  Nor was she deficient in the pleasure walks of the culinary art.  Betsey Pratt, the tavernkeeper’s wife, a special crony of Statira’s, used always to send for her whenever she was in straits, or when, on some grand occasion, a dinner or supper was to be prepared and served up in more than ordinary style.  So learned was she in all the devices of the pantry and kitchen, that many a young woman in the parish would have given half her setting-out, and her whole store of printed cookery-books, to know by heart Tira Blake’s unwritten lore of rules and recipes.  So, wherever she went, she was welcome, albeit not a few stood in fear of her; for though, when well treated, she was as good-humored as a kitten, when provoked, especially by a slight or affront, her wrath was dangerous.  Her tongue was sharper than her needle, and her pickles were not more piquant than her sarcastic wit.  Tira, the older people used to remark, was Tommy Blake’s own daughter; and truly, she did inherit many of her father’s qualities, both good and bad, and not a few of his crotchets and opinions.  In fine, she was a shrewd, sensible, Yankee old maid, who, as she herself was wont to say, was as well able to take care of ‘number one’ as e’er a man in town.