getting-up.  He did not know of the privy consultations, the sewings, stitchings, and starchings, the ironings, the brushings, the foldings and unfoldings and timely arrangements, that gave such dignity and respectability to his outer man, any more than the serene moon rising tranquilly behind a purple mountain-top troubles her calm head with treatises on astronomy; it is enough for her to shine,—­she thinks not how or why.

There is a vast amount of latent gratitude to women lying undeveloped in the hearts of men, which would come out plentifully, if they only knew what they did for them.  The Doctor was so used to being well dressed, that he never asked why.  That his wig always sat straight and even around his ample forehead, not facetiously poked to one side, nor assuming rakish airs, unsuited to clerical dignity, was entirely owing to Mrs. Katy Scudder.  That his best broadcloth coat was not illustrated with shreds and patches, fluff and dust, and hanging in ungainly folds, was owing to the same.  That his long silk stockings never had a treacherous stitch allowed to break out into a long running ladder was due to her watchfulness; and that he wore spotless ruffles on his wrists or at his bosom was her doing also.  The Doctor little thought, while he, in common with good ministers generally, gently traduced the Scriptural Martha and insisted on the duty of heavenly abstractedness, how much of his own leisure for spiritual contemplation was due to the Martha-like talents of his hostess.  But then, the good soul had it in him to be grateful, and would have been unboundedly so, if he had known his indebtedness,—­as, we trust, most of our magnanimous masters would be.

Mr. Zebedee Marvyn was quietly sitting in the front summer parlor, listening to the story of two of his brother church-members, between whom some difficulty had arisen in the settling of accounts:  Jim Bigelow, a small, dry, dapper little individual, known as general jobber and factotum, and Abram Griswold, a stolid, wealthy, well-to-do farmer.  And the fragments of conversation we catch are not uninteresting, as showing Mr. Zebedee’s habits of thought and mode of treating those who came to him for advice.

“I could ’ave got along better, if he’d ‘a’ paid me regular every night,” said the squeaky voice of little Jim;—­“but he was allers puttin’ me off till it come even change, he said.”

“Well, ’ta’n’t always handy,” replied the other; “one doesn’t like to break into a five-pound note for nothing; and I like to let it run till it comes even change.”

“But, brother,” said Mr. Zebedee, turning over the great Bible that lay on the mahogany stand in the corner, “we must go to the law and to the testimony,”—­and, turning over the leaves, he read from Deuteronomy, xxiv.:—­

“Thou shalt not oppress an hired servant that is poor and needy, whether he be of thy brethren or of thy strangers that are in thy land within thy gates.  At his day thou shalt give him his hire, neither shall the sun go down upon it; for he is poor, and setteth his heart upon it:  lest he cry against thee unto the Lord, and it be sin unto thee.”