“No, he a’n’t,—­so Mr. Gris’ld says,” went on Polly.  “You see, I was a-comin’ up here from the Centre, so’s to see if Sam couldn’t wait for his roundabout till arter Thanksgivin’; for Keziah Perkins, she ’t was my sister’s husband’s fust wife’s darter, ‘n’ finally married sister’s fust husband’s son, she’s a real likely woman, and she’s wrote over from Taunton to ask me to go there to Thanksgivin’; ‘n’ to-day’s Monday; ‘n’ I was a-comin’ here Tuesday so’s to make Sam’s roundabout; ‘n’ yesterday Miss Luken’s boy Simon, he ’t a’n’t but three year old, he got my press-board, when he was a-crawlin’ round, ‘n’ laid it right onto the cookin’-stove, and fust thing Miss Lukens know’d it blazed right up, ‘n’ I can’t get another fixed afore Wednesday, and then I’d ought to be to Taunton, ’cause there a’n’t no stage runs Thursday, and there hadn’t oughter, of course”——­

“We have got a press-board,” said Mrs. Griswold, quietly.

“Yes, and I a’n’t goin’ to grandfather’s in my old jacket, Miss Poll,” interposed Sam, one of the “terrible” children who are scattered here and there through this world.  “Catch me where all the folks are, in that old butternut suit!” added Sam.

But here his father stepped in at the door,—­a fine, sturdy, handsome farmer, one of New England’s model men, whose honesty was a proverb, and whose goodness a reliance to every creature in Greenfield.

“John isn’t coming, wife,” said Mr. Griswold, in a steady, sober tone.  “He says business will delay him, so that he can only get to Coventry just as we do.”

“So you had a letter,” said Mrs. Griswold, carefully avoiding a look at Lizzy.

“Yes,” said Mr. Griswold, in a very abrupt way.—­“Are you ready to go back, Miss Polly? for I’ve got to go down to the Centre again with a load of wheat.”

“Well, yes, I don’t know but I be.  I ken stay over, if you want help, Miss Gris’ld.  I’m a-goin’ to the minister’s to help Miss Fletcher a little mite this afternoon, but I guess she don’t lot on it none; ‘n’ seein’ it’s you, I ken stay, if you want help.”

Lizzy looked quickly across the kitchen at her mother.

“Oh! no, thank you, Miss Polly, I know Mrs. Fletcher would feel very badly to lose your help, and I really don’t need it until to-morrow.”

“Then I’ll come round to the door as quick as I’ve loaded up,” said Mr. Griswold; and Miss Polly settled back in her chair to wait comfortably; a process much intensified by a large piece of Mrs. Griswold’s gingerbread and a glass of new cider, both brought her by Lizzy’s hospitable hands,—­readier even than usual just now, in the vain hope of stopping Polly Mariner’s clattering tongue.  But neither gingerbread nor cider was a specific to that end:  Polly talked while she ate, and ate while she talked.  But while she finishes her luncheon, let us make known to the patient reader whom and what the tailoress discusses.