“Why, now, I think it’s the easiest way, by a sight, Miss Hitty.  I didn’t mean to cast it up against you, for I know it’s partly natur’, but I do think folks can help natur’ more’n they’re generally willing to allow.  I know it does seem as if you couldn’t help thinkin’ about troubles sometimes, and it’s quite a chore to keep bright; but then it seems so much more cheery not to be fretted over things you can’t help, and it is such a sight pleasanter for everybody else!  I declare, it does seem jest as though the Lord had made this world for folks to have a good time in, only they don’t all know how, and I always feel a call to help ’em.”

“You’re a master-piece to talk, ’Tenty,—­but it don’t make the difference with me it does with some folks; it seems as if I should ha’ had a better time almost any way beside my way.  I get more and more failin’ every day,—­I’m pretty near gone now.  I don’t know but what I shall die any time.  I suffer so with rheumatiz, and I’m troubled considerable with a risin’ of the lungs; and sometimes I do think I’ve got a spine in my back, it aches and creaks so nights.”

“Why, I was thinking, since you set here, Miss Hitty, how spry you be, and you’ve got a real ’hullsome look to your face; I should say you’d grown fat.”

“Fat!” exclaimed the indignant spinster; “about as fat as a hen’s forehead!  Why, Content Scranton!  I’m dreadful poor,—­poor as Job’s turkey; why, my arms is all bones and sinners.”

“You don’t say so!  I guess that’s knitting, Miss Hitty; you do knit beautiful.  Is that worsted or cotton you’re at now?”

Praise allayed Miss Hitty’s wounded self-pity.  She grew amiable under its slow-dropping dews always, as ’Tenty knew.

“Oh, this a’n’t anything to boast of.  I call this common knitting; it’s a pair of socks I promised Miss Warner for her boy.  Speakin’ of her boy Ned makes me think;—­have you heared the news, ’Tenty?”

“No, I haven’t heared any.”

“Well, it’s jest like a story-book.  Ned Parker,—­he’t was Doctor Parker’s son, an’ promised to our Hanner-Ann,—­he’s turned up, it appears.  He wa’n’t drownded, but he was washed ashore, and the Indians they took him, and he wasn’t able to get away for ten year; then a whaler’s crew catched sight of him, havin’ slopped there, for water, and took him aboard, and he’s been the world over since.  He calculated everybody to Deerfield was dead and married, so he didn’t come back; but now he is a-comin’ back, for he’s lost a leg, and he’s got some money, and they say he is a-goin’ to settle down here.”

“Has he come yet, Miss Hitty?”

“No, they’re expectin’ of him to Miss Warner’s every day;—­you know she was Miss Parker’s half-brother’s wife.”

“Yes, I have heared she was.  But, Miss Hitty, don’t roll up your work.”

“Oh, I must be a-goin’,—­it’s time; my help will be standin’ on her head by this time, like enough.  I don’t see but what one Irish girl is about as confinin’ as seven children, I’m sure.”