He had picked up a great many ideas, too, wherever he had been, and his wife was immensely proud of him and them, whenever she could compare them with the men and ideas which existed at Crankett; but when Ephr’m displayed his memories and knowledge to her alone—­oh, that was a very different thing.

“Anyhow,” resumed Mrs. Crankett, raising the lid of the churn to see if there were any signs of butter, “it’s an everlastin’ shame.  Jim Hockson’s a young feller in good standin’ in the Church, an’ Millie Botayne’s an unbeliever—­they say her father’s a reg’lar infidel.”

“Easy, ma, easy,” gently remonstrated Ephr’m.  “When he seed you lookin’ at his pet rose-bush on yer way to church las’ Sunday, didn’t he hurry an’ pull two or three an’ han’ ’em to ye?”

“Yes, an’ what did he hev’ in t’other han’?—­a Boasting paper, an’ not a Sunday one, nuther!  Millicent ain’t a Christian name, nohow ye can fix it—­it amounts to jest ‘bout’s much ez she does, an’ that’s nothing.  She’s got a soft face, an’ purty hair—­ef it’s all her own, which I powerfully doubt—­an’ after that ther’s nothin’ to her.  She’s never been to sewin’ meetin’, an’ she’s off a boatin’ with that New York chap every Saturday afternoon, instead of goin’ to the young people’s prayer-meetin’s.”

“She’s most supported Sam Ransom’s wife an’ young uns since Sam’s smack was lost,” suggested Ephr’m.

“That’s you, Deac’n Crankett,” replied his wife, “always stick up for sinners.  P’r’aps you’d make better use of your time ef you’d examine yer own evidences.”

“Wa’al, wife,” said the deacon, “she’s engaged to that New York feller, ez you call Mr. Brown, so there’s no danger of Jim bein’ onequally yoked with an onbeliever.  An’ I wish her well, from the bottom of my heart.”

“I don’t,” cried Mrs. Crankett, giving the dasher a vicious push, which sent the cream flying frantically up to the top of the churn; “I hope he’ll turn out bad, an’ her pride’ll be tuk down ez—­”

The deacon had been long enough at sea to know the signs of a long storm, and to know that prudence suggested a prompt sailing out of the course of such a storm, when possible; so he started for the door, carrying the glass and ax-helve with him.  Suddenly the door opened, and a female figure ran so violently against the ax-helve, that the said figure was instantly tumbled to the floor, and seemed an irregular mass of faded pink calico, and subdued plaid shawl.

“Miss Peekin!” exclaimed Mrs. Crankett, dropping the churn-dasher and opening her eyes.

“Like to ha’ not been,” whined the figure, slowly arising and giving the offending ax-helve a glance which would have set it on fire had it not been of green hickory; “but—­hev you heerd?”

“What?” asked Mrs. Crankett, hastily setting a chair for the newcomer, while Ephr’m, deacon and sixty though he was, paused in his almost completed exit.

“He’s gone!” exclaimed Miss Peekin.