“Well, after that, ‘t wa’n’t no use thinkin’ o’ Rachel any more.  I had to go t’ Old Jones’s, whether I wanted to or no.  I felt mighty mean when I thought o’ Rachel, an’ was afeard no good ’d come of it; but father jist managed things his way, an’ I couldn’t help myself.  Old Jones had nothin’ agin me, for I was a stiddy, hard-workin’ feller as there was round,—­an’ Mary Ann was always as pleasant as could be, then;—­well, I oughtn’t to say nothin’ agin her now; she’s had a hard life of it, ‘longside o’ me.  Afore long we were bespoke, an’ the day set.  Father hurried things, when it got that fur.  I don’t think Rachel knowed anything about it till the day afore the weddin’, or mebby the very day.  Old Mr. Larrabee was the minister, an’ there was only the two families at the house, an’ Miss Plankerton,—­her that sewed for Mary Ann.  I never felt so oneasy in my life, though I tried hard not to show it.

“Well, ‘t was all jist over, an’ the kissin’ about to begin, when I heerd the house-door bu’st open, suddent.  I felt my heart give one jump right up to the root o’ my tongue, an’ then fall back ag’in, sick an’ dead-like.

“The parlor-door flew open right away, an’ in come Rachel without a bunnet, an’ her hair all frowzed by the wind.  She was as white as a sheet, an’ her eyes like two burnin’ coals.  She walked straight through ‘em all an’ stood right afore me.  They was all so taken aback that they never thought o’ stoppin’ her.  Then she kind o’ screeched out,—­’Eber Nicholson, what are you doin’?’ Her voice was strange an’ onnatural-like, an’ I’d never ‘a’ knowed it to be hern, if I hadn’t ‘a’ seen her.  I couldn’t take my eyes off of her, an’ I couldn’t speak:  I jist stood there.  Then she said ag’in,—­’Eber Nicholson, what are you doin’?  You are married to me, in the sight of God.  You belong to me an’ I to you, forever an’ forever!’ Then they begun cryin’ out,—­’Go ‘way!’ ‘Take her away!’ ‘What d’s she mean?’ an’ old Mr. Larrabee ketched holt of her arm.  She begun to jerk an’ trimble all over; she drawed in her breath in a sort o’ groanin’ way, awful to hear, an’ then dropped down on the floor in a fit.  I bu’st out in a terrible spell o’ cryin’;—­I couldn’t ‘a’ helped it, to save my life.”

The man paused, drew his sleeve across his eyes, and then timidly looked at me.  Seeing nothing in my face, doubtless, but an expression of the profoundest commiseration, he remarked, with a more assured voice, as if in self-justification,—­

“It was a pretty hard thing for a man to go through with, now, wasn’t it?”

“You may well say that,” said I.  “Your story is not yet finished, however.  This Rachel Emmons,—­you say she is still living,—­in what way does she cause the disturbances?”