Nothing happened in Deerfield; so nothing happened to “’Tenty Scran’,” as the school-children nicknamed her.  She earned her living now at tailoring and dress-making; for Miss ’Viny was much “laid up with rheumatiz,” and could not go about as was her wont.  Also, the art and mystery of housekeeping became familiar to the child, and economy of the domestic sort was a virtue she learned unconsciously by continual practice.  She went to church on Sundays in a clean calico frock and a white cape, sat in the singers’ seat and uplifted her voice in Lenox and Mear, Wells and Bethesda, shared her fennel with the children in the gallery, looked out the text in her Bible, and always thought Parson Goodyear’s sermon was intended for her good, and took it in accordingly.

I should like to say that ‘Tenty Scran’ was pretty; in fact, I have always regarded it as one of the chief pleasures of a literary calling, that you are not obliged to take people as they are, but can make them to order, since it takes no more pen-scratches to describe luxuriant curls and celestial eyes and roseate lips than it does to set forth much less lovely things; but when it comes to stubborn facts, why, there you have to come down to this world, and proceed accordingly,—­so I must say ’Tenty was not handsome.  She had fresh rosy cheeks and small brown eyes, hair to match the eyes, a nose undeniably pug, a full, wide mouth, and strong, white teeth,—­fortunately, since every one showed when she laughed, and she laughed a great deal.  Then she had a dumpy figure, and good large hands and feet, a look of downright honesty and good-temper, and a nice, clear voice in speech or singing, though she only sang hymns.  But for all this, every-body in Deerfield liked ‘Tenty Scran’; old and young, men and maidens, all had a kindly welcome for her; and though Aunt ’Viny did not say much, she felt the more.

But “everybody has their sorrers,” as Hannah-Ann Hall remarked, in one of her “’Cademy” compositions, and ’Tenty came to hers when she was about twenty-two.  Miss Lovina was almost bed-ridden with the rheumatism that year, and ’Tenty had to come back twice a day from her work to see to her, so that she made it up by staying evenings, against her usual rules.  Now about the middle of that May, Doctor Parker’s scapegrace son Ned came home from sea,—­a great, lazy, handsome fellow, who had run away from Deerfield in his fifteenth year, because it was so “darned stupid,” to use his own phrase.  Doctor Parker was old, and Mrs. Parker was old, too, but she called it nervous; and home was stupider than ever to Ned, particularly as he had broken his ankle and was laid on the sofa for a good six weeks at least.  About the second of those weeks, Content Scranton came to “do over” Mrs. Parker’s summer-gowns, and put her caps together after their semi-annual starching.

Of course ’Tenty sat in the “keeping-room,” where the old sofa was; and of course Ned had nothing better to do than to watch the gay, good little bee at her toil, hear her involuntary snatches of hymn-singing, laugh at her bright simplicity, and fall in love with her, sailor-fashion,—­“here to-day, and gone tomorrow.”