“I didn’t come up here to talk about this, and p’raps it ain’t the right time to do it, but there’s no use backin’ down when you begin.  I’ve got a consait that men and women ain’t built out of the same kind of timber.  Look at my hand—­a great pile o’ bones covered with brown luther, with the hair on,—­and then look at yourn.  White oak ain’t bass, is it?  Every man’s hand ain’t so black as mine, and every woman’s ain’t so white as yourn, but there’s always difference enough to show, and there’s just as much odds in their doin’s and dispositions as there is in their hands.  I know what women be.  I’ve wintered and summered with ’em, and take ’em by and large, they’re better’n men.  Now and then a feller gets hitched to a hedgehog, but most of ’em get a woman that’s too good for ’em.  They’re gentle and kind, and runnin’ over with good feelin’s, and will stick to a fellow a mighty sight longer’n he’ll stick to himself.  My woman’s dead and gone, but if there wan’t any women in the world, and I owned it, I’d sell out for three shillin’s, and throw in stars enough to make it an object for somebody to take it off my hands.

“Some time ago,” resumed Woodcock.  “I heerd the little ones and some of the old ones tellin’ what they was goin’ to give Mary Pynchon when she got married; and it set me to thinkin’ what I could give her, for I knew if anybody ought to give her anything, it was me.  But I hadn’t any money, and I couldn’t send to the Bay for anything, and I shouldn’t ’a known what to get if I could, I might have shot a buck, but I couldn’t ‘a brought it to the weddin’, and it didn’t seem exactly ship-shape to give her anything she could eat up and forget.  So I thought I’d give her a keepsake my wife left me when she died.  It’s all I’ve got of any vally to me, and it’s somethin’ that’ll grow better every day it is kep’, if you’ll take care of it.  I don’t know what’ll come of me, and I want to leave it in good hands.”

The bride began to grow curious, and despite their late repulse the group began to collect again.

“It’s a queer thing for a present, perhaps, (and Woodcock’s lip began to quiver and his eye to moisten,) but I hope it’ll do you some service.  ’Taint anything’t you can wear in your hair, or throw over your shoulders.  It’s—­it’s—­”

“It’s what?” inquired Mary, with an encouraging smile.

Woodcock took hold of the hand of his child, and placing it in that of the questioner, burst out with, “God knows that’s the handle to it,” and retreated to the window, where he spent several minutes looking out into the night, and endeavoring to repress the spasms of a choking throat.  Neither Mary Holyoke nor her husband could disguise their emotions, as they saw before them the living testimonial of Woodcock’s gratitude and trust.  Mary stooped and kissed the gift-child, who clung to her as if, contrary to her father’s statement, she was an article of wearing apparel.

* * * * *