“See, then, father, if you are!” retorted the wide-awake youth, going out of the room in ground and lofty tumbling, and up-stairs in somersets.

“I don’t see,” said I, pettishly, “how I am to get this bundle into my trunk, nor where in the world this great box of sugar is to go.  See! not a direction! but I suppose she is in New York somewhere.”

“We shall see her at all events, which is something.  I should like to know what she is like,—­not to look after her boy for two mortal years,” said the Dominie.

“I hope not like Gus.  He’d make an ugly woman, with his black hair and heavy eyebrows, and his big, black eyes always staring.  He don’t look like an American child.”

“If we could only say what an American type is.  At present, it is a little of everything.”

“I mean a New-Englander,—­an original American.”

“Well, he don’t.—­What do you say to these trunks?  Shall we try again to compress the gigantic genie into the copper vessel?  I thought it was a dangerous move, that last one of yours, taking out Tirzah White’s quilted coat.  And what’s to be done with these three packages?”

“Well! we can’t sit here!” said I, briskly; “half-past nine already, and only one trunk packed!  Never mind.  You can put these three bundles in with your clothes.”

“Bursting the lock, now.”

“How easy ’tis to pack other people’s things!  But what, then, have you in there,—­I mean, besides your shirts, etc.?”

“Imprimis.  Eight volumes of Scott’s Commentaries, brought by Deacon Boardman.  I am to exchange them.  They are imperfect. Item.  A dozen of ‘Sinbad the Sailor,’ sent by mistake to the Association, instead of Doddridge.  These books won’t press nor give, more than sound doctrine; and I must have room for my gown, without which I am nothing.”

The clock struck ten, and we were still struggling with unabated ardor to compress Lorana Briggs’s shawl, and the flat packages from Burt’s, into the largest carpet-bag, that there might be room for the seventeen letters on top of the minister’s luggage, inside the sanctuary of his silk gown.

“We can carry a good deal in your coat-pocket, my dear,” said I, cheerfully; for really we seemed to be coming to daylight, a little.

“Full.”

The knocker sounded.

“My galoches at last!  Deacon, I can’t ask you to come in, we are so untidy; but I couldn’t pack as I meant to, this afternoon.”

How we dreaded his coming in,—­half deacon, half shoemaker, and two-thirds missionary, with his “Panoplist” sticking out of his coat-pocket, and his ears evermore pricked up for the latest news from Bombay! and how angry I had been for three weeks because I couldn’t get those indispensable galoches!

It seemed as if he never would go from the half-open door.  He reckoned the York folks would stare to see so many patches; he expected ministers down to York warn’t quite so carfle and troubled about many things, as they be to Weston; but he added, with a grim joyfulness,—­