“Jest what Cerinthy Ann was sayin’, the other day,” said Mrs. Twitchel.  “She says she can’t never be sure how hers is a-comin’ out.  Do what she can, it will be either too much or too little; but Miss Scudder’s is always jest so.  ‘Law,’ says I, ’Cerinthy Ann, it’s faculty,—­that’s it;—­them that has it has it, and them that hasn’t—­why, they’ve got to work hard, and not do half so well, neither.’”

Mrs. Katy took all these praises as matter of course.  Since she was thirteen years old, she had never put her hand to anything that she had not been held to do better than other folks, and therefore she accepted her praises with the quiet repose and serenity of assured reputation; though, of course, she used the usual polite disclaimers of “Oh, it’s nothing, nothing at all; I’m sure I don’t know how I do it, and was not aware it was so good,”—­and so on.  All which things are proper for gentlewomen to observe in like cases, in every walk of life.

“Do you think the Deacon will be along soon?” said Mrs. Katy, when Mary, returning from the kitchen, announced the important fact, that the tea-kettle was boiling.

“Why, yes,” said Mrs. Twitchel.  “I’m a-lookin’ for him every minute.  He told me, that he and the men should be plantin’ up to the eight-acre lot, but he’d keep the colt up there to come down on; and so I laid him out a clean shirt, and says, ’Now, Father, you be sure and be there by five, so that Miss Scudder may know when to put her tea a-drawin’.’  —­There he is, I believe,” she added, as a horse’s tramp was heard without, and, after a few moments, the desired Deacon entered.

He was a gentle, soft-spoken man, low, sinewy, thin, with black hair showing lines and patches of silver.  His keen, thoughtful, dark eye marked the nervous and melancholic temperament.  A mild and pensive humility of manner seemed to brood over him, like the shadow of a cloud.  Everything in his dress, air, and motions indicated punctilious exactness and accuracy, at times rising to the point of nervous anxiety.

Immediately after the bustle of his entrance had subsided, Mr. Simeon Brown followed.  He was a tall, lank individual, with high cheek-bones, thin, sharp features, small, keen, hard eyes, and large hands and feet.

Simeon was, as we have before remarked, a keen theologian, and had the scent of a hound for a metaphysical distinction.  True, he was a man of business, being a thriving trader to the coast of Africa, whence he imported negroes for the American market; and no man was held to understand that branch of traffic better,—­he having, in his earlier days, commanded ships in the business, and thus learned it from the root.  In his private life, Simeon was severe and dictatorial.  He was one of that class of people who, of a freezing day, will plant themselves directly between you and the fire, and there stand and argue to prove that selfishness is the root of all moral evil.  Simeon said he