Saying which, Miss ’Tenty brewed her tea, spread her bread and butter, and with a bit of cheese made her savory meal, cleared it away, washed the dishes, and resumed her work as peacefully as if her life had been all as serene as today.

Ned Parker did come back to Deerfield, and settled there,—­a coarse, red-faced, stout, sailor-like man, with a wooden leg.  Ten years in Patagonia and ten years of whaling had not improved his aspect or his morals.  He swore like a pirate, chewed, smoked a pipe, and now and then drank to excess; and by way of elegant diversion to these amusements, fell in love with Content Scranton!  Her trim figure, her bright, cheerful face, her pretty, neat little house and garden, the rumored “interest-money,” that was the fruit of years of hard work and saving, all attracted this lazy, selfish man, who, remembering his youth, fancied he had only to ask, to receive; and was struck with astonishment to hear,—­

“No, thank you,” in a very calm, clear tone, answered to his proposition.

“Good Lord! you women are queer craft!  I swear, I thought you’d lay to when I h’isted signals; I ha’n’t forgot past times and the meetin’-house steps, if you have, ’Tenty Scranton.”

“You’ve forgotten Hannah-Ann Hall, I guess,” retorted the indignant little woman.

Ned Parker swore a great oath; he had forgotten that passage,—­though only for a moment.

“Look here!” said ’Tenty, coloring with quiet wrath.  “I cannot be friendly, even, with a man that talks that way.  You had your sport, makin’ believe you liked me, and I didn’t know better than to believe you was an honest man.  I did think a sight of you then, Ed’ard Parker.  I a’n’t ashamed to own it.  I had reason to,—­for your actions was louder than words.  But when I come to know you hadn’t meant nothing by all your praises and kisses and fine words, except just to have your own fun while you stayed, no matter what become of me, I see, after I’d got the tears out of my eyes, what kind of a self-seekin’, mean, paltry man it was that could carry on so with an innocent young girl, and I hadn’t no more respect for you than I have for a potato-peeling.  I’ve lived to bless the Lord that kept me from you, and I a’n’t going to take my blessings back.  It’s because I do remember them times that I say No, now.  Your locket is at the bottom of our well; but any love I had with it is drowned deeper, down to the bottom of nothing.  I wish you well, and to mend your ways; but I don’t want to see you here, never!”

After this pungent dismission, nothing was left for Ned Parker but to hobble from the house, cursing to himself for shame, while ’Tenty buried her face in her apron and cried as bitterly as if fifteen, instead of fifty, assailed her with its sorrows.

Why did she cry?  Who knows?  Perhaps, if you, my dear friend, longing for the face that bloomed, the lips that kissed, the eyes that smiled for you, years ago, should suddenly be confronted by those features, after years of death and decay had done their ghastly work on them, bones grinning from their clinging morsels of clay, you, too, might hide your head and cry with terror and disgust and regret.  And again you might not.  As I said before, who knows?