“Why, yes, Miss Scudder, I’m pretty tol’able.  I keep goin’, and goin’.  That’s my way.  I’s a-tellin’ the Deacon, this-mornin’, I didn’t see how I was to come here this afternoon; but then I did want to see Miss Scudder and talk a little about that precious sermon, Sunday.  How is the Doctor? blessed man!  Well, his reward must be great in heaven, if not on earth, as I was a-tellin’ the Deacon; and he says to me, says he, ‘Polly, we mustn’t be man-worshippers.’  There, dear,” (to Mary,) “don’t trouble yourself about my bonnet; it a’n’t my Sunday one, but I thought ’twould do.  Says I to Cerinthy Ann, ’Miss Scudder won’t mind, ‘cause her heart’s set on better things.’  I always like to drop a word in season to Cerinthy Ann, ’cause she’s clean took up with vanity and dress.  Oh, dear! oh, dear me! so different from your blessed daughter, Miss Scudder!  Well, it’s a great blessin’ to be called in one’s youth, like Samuel and Timothy; but then we doesn’t know the Lord’s ways.  Sometimes I gets clean discouraged with my children,—­but then ag’in I don’t know; none on us does.  Cerinthy Ann is one of the most master hands to turn off work; she takes hold and goes along like a woman, and nobody never knows when that gal finds the time to do all she does do; and I don’t know nothin’ what I should do without her.  Deacon was saying, if ever she was called, she’d be a Martha, and not a Mary; but then she’s dreadful opposed to the doctrines.  Oh, dear me! oh, dear me!  Somehow they seem to rile her all up; and she was a-tellin’ me yesterday, when she was a-hangin’ out clothes, that she never should get reconciled to Decrees and ’Lection, ’cause she can’t see, if things is certain, how folks is to help ’emselves.  Says I, ’Cerinthy Ann, folks a’n’t to help ‘emselves; they’s to submit unconditional.’  And she jest slammed down the clothes-basket and went into the house.”

When Mrs. Twitchel began to talk, it flowed a steady stream, as when one turns a faucet, that never ceases running till some hand turns it back again; and the occasion that cut the flood short at present was the entrance of Mrs. Brown.

Mr. Simeon Brown was a thriving shipowner of Newport, who lived in a large house, owned several negro-servants and a span of horses, and affected some state and style in his worldly appearance.  A passion for metaphysical Orthodoxy had drawn Simeon to the congregation of Dr. H., and his wife of course stood by right in a high place there.  She was a tall, angular, somewhat hard-favored body, dressed in a style rather above the simple habits of her neighbors, and her whole air spoke the great woman, who in right of her thousands expected to have her say in all that was going on in the world, whether she understood it or not.

On her entrance, mild little Mrs. Twitchel fled from the cushioned rocking-chair, and stood with the quivering air of one who feels she has no business to be anywhere in the world, until Mrs. Brown’s bonnet was taken and she was seated, when Mrs. Twitchel subsided into a corner and rattled her knitting-needles to conceal her emotion.