But night came, and Polly went.  Lizzy went to bed with a bad headache,—­convenient synonyme for aches of soul or body that one does not care to christen!  Sleep she certainly did that night, for she dreamed John was married to a rich Boston girl with red hair and a yellow flannel dress, and that Polly Mariner was bridesmaid in the peculiar costume of a blue roundabout and pantaloons!  But sleep with such dreams was scarcely a restorer; and Wednesday morning, when Mrs. Griswold asked Lizzy if she had put up her carpet-bag to go to Coventry, she received for answer a flood of tears, and a very earnest petition to be left at home.

“Leave you, Lizzy!  Why, grandfather couldn’t have Thanksgiving without you!  And Uncle Boynton!  And Aunt Lizzy is coming up from Stonington with the new baby;—­and—­John, too!  You must go, Lizzy, dear!”

“I can’t, mother!  I can’t!” said the poor girl, sobbing after every word; “please don’t ask me.  I can’t!  I’ve got a headache; oh, dear!” Here a fresh burst of tears followed, as Lizzy buried her head in her mother’s lap.

Mrs. Griswold was both grieved and astonished; she sat speechless, stroking the soft hair that swept over her knee, till Lizzy’s sobs quieted, and then said,—­

“Well, dear, if you’re set on staying at home, I won’t oppose it, if your father thinks best; but I must ask him; only what will you do, Lizzy, here alone all night?”

“Chloe and Peter will be here, mother; and I’ll make Chloe sleep in Sam’s room, and leave the door open; and when they go down to Dinah’s, I’ll lock up, and I shan’t feel afraid in broad day.”

Mrs. Griswold shook her head doubtfully.

“I’ll see what father says,” said she.  So Lizzy lifted her head, and smoothed her hair, while her mother went out to the barn to consult “father.”

Here she was, if anything, more puzzled.  Mr. Griswold heard the proposal with a rather misty look, as if he didn’t see why, and when his wife finished, said, gravely,—­

“What is it, Susan?  Anybody ’t has lived as long as I have knows pretty well that a woman’s headache stands for a whole dictionary.”

“Why, you see,” said Mrs. Griswold, twisting a little lock of hay in her fingers, and faintly blushing, as if the question had been of herself rather than Lizzy, “she—­well, the fact is, husband, she’s kind of riled about John’s not coming; you see we haven’t been real particular about the children, and so”——­

“You needn’t spell it, Susan,” said Mr. Griswold, with a half smile; “Polly Mariner’s tongue helped on, I guess.  You let Lizzy stay, if she wants to; ’twon’t hurt her; when folks want to sulk, I generally let ’em.  She can stay.”

He began to whistle “Yankee Doodle” and pitch hay energetically, while “Susan” was within hearing; but how would that dear woman’s soul have floundered deeper and deeper in the fog that clouded it now, had she seen her grave husband sit down on one end of the hay-mow and laugh till the tears stood in his keen eyes, and then, drawing his coat-sleeve across the shaggy lashes, say to himself, “Poor child!” and begin his work with fresh strength!