Nun-like, Araminta sat in her chair and sewed steadily at her dainty seam, but, none the less, she was deeply stirred with pity for women who so forgot themselves—­who had not Aunt Hitty’s superior wisdom.  At the end of the prayer which Miss Mehitable had taught the child, and which the woman still repeated in her nightly devotions, was this eloquent passage: 

“And, Oh Lord, keep me from the contamination of marriage.  For Thy sake.  Amen.”

“Araminta,” said Aunt Hitty, severely, “cover up your foot!” Modestly, Araminta drew down her skirt.  One foot was on the immaculate footstool and her ankle was exposed to view—­a lovely ankle, in spite of the broad-soled, common-sense shoes which she always wore.

“How often have I told you to keep your ankles covered ?” demanded Miss Mehitable.  “Suppose the minister had come in suddenly!  Suppose—­upon my word!  Speakin’ of angels—­if there ain’t the minister now!”

The Reverend Austin Thorpe came slowly up the brick-bordered path, his head bowed in thought.  He was painfully near-sighted, but he refused to wear glasses.  On the doorstep he paused and wiped his feet upon the corn-husk mat until even Miss Mehitable, beaming at him through the window, thought he was overdoing it.  Unconsciously, she took credit to herself for the minister’s neatness.

Stepping carefully, lest he profane the hall carpet by wandering off the rug, the minister entered the parlour, having first taken off his coat and hat and hung them upon their appointed hooks in the hall.  It was cold, and the cheery warmth of the room beckoned him in.  He did not know that he tried Miss Hitty by trespassing, so to speak, upon her preserves.  She would have been better pleased if he remained in his room when he was not at the table or out, but, to do him justice, the reverend gentleman did not often offend her thus.

Araminta, blushing, took her foot from the footstool and pulled feverishly at her skirts.  As Mr. Thorpe entered the room, she did not look up, but kept her eyes modestly upon her work.

“There ain’t no need to tear out the gathers,” Miss Hitty said, in a warning undertone, referring to Aramlnta’s skirts.  “Why, Mr. Thorpe!  How you surprised me!  Come in and set a spell,” she added, grudgingly.

Steering well away from the centre-table with its highly prized ornament, Thorpe gained the chair in which, if he did not lean against the tidy, he was permitted to sit.  He held himself bolt upright and warmed his hands at the stove.  “It is good to be out,” he said, cheerfully, “and good to come in again.  A day like this makes one appreciate the blessing of a home.”

Miss Hitty watched the white-haired, inoffensive old man with the keen scrutiny of an eagle guarding its nest.  He did not lean upon the tidy, nor rest his elbows upon the crocheted mats which protected the arms of the chair.  In short, he conducted himself as a gentleman should when in the parlour of a lady.