But Marie was not to be turned aside.  It was well known, she said, that angels could not come to earth undisguised in these days.  It had something to do with the Jews, she did not know exactly what.  Mere Jeanne had told her, but she forgot just how it was.  But as to their not coming at all, that would be out of the question, for how would the good God know what was going on down here, or know who was behaving well and meriting a crown of glory, and who should go down into the pit?  Did not Abby see that?

Abby privately thought that here was strange heathen talk to be going on in her kitchen; but she said nothing, only gave her guest more jam, and said she was eating nothing,—­the proper formula for a good hostess, no matter how much the guest may have devoured.

It was true, as has been said before, that Abby Rock was not fair to outward view.  Nature had been in a crabbed mood when she fashioned this gaunt, angular form, these gnarled, unlovely features.  An uncharitable neighbour, in describing Abby, once said that she looked as if she had swallowed an old cedar fence-rail and shrunk to it; and the description was apt enough so far as the body went.  Her skin, eyes, and hair were of different shades (yet not so very different) of greyish brown; her nose was long and knotty, her mouth and chin apparently taken at random from a box of misfits.  Yes, the cedar fence-rail came as near to it as anything could.  Yet somehow, no one who had seen the light of kindness in those faded eyes, and heard the sweet, cordial tones of that quiet voice, thought much about their owner’s looks.  People said it was a pity Abby wasn’t better favoured, and then they thought no more about it, but were simply thankful that she existed.

She had led the life that many an ugly saint leads, here in New England, and the world over.  Nurse and drudge for the pretty younger sister, the pride and joy of her heart, till she married and went away to live in a distant State; then drudge and nurse for the invalid mother, broken down by unremitting toil.  No toil would ever break Abby down, for she was a strong woman; she had never worked too hard that she was aware of; but—­she had always worked, and never done anything else.  No lover had ever looked into her eyes or taken her hand tenderly.  Not likely! she would say to herself with a scornful sniff, eyeing her homely face in the glass.  Men weren’t such fools as they looked.

One or two had wanted to marry her house, as she expressed it, and had asked for herself into the bargain, not seeing how they could manage it otherwise.  They were not to blame for wanting the house, she thought with some complacency, as she glanced round her sitting-room.  Everything in the room shone and twinkled.  The rugs were beautifully made, and the floor under them in the usual dining-table condition ascribed ever since books were written to the model housewife.  The corner cupboards held treasures of blue and white