“Oh, Mis’ Bemis, I s’pose I be goin’ to have him!” said Miranda dejectedly.  “He thinks he’s consumpted, and I thought I could doctor him up, and ’twould be a use for the money.  And he was a minister once, though it was some queer kind of a denomination that I never heard of, and that seemed kind of edifyin’; and his arm was cut off away off in Philadelphy ten years ago, and yet he can feel it a-twingein’.  And he’s kind of slim and retirin’, and not so unhandy to have round as some men would be.  And, anyhow, I’ve give him my promise.”

“Mirandy, I didn’t think you was so foolish as that,—­and him an imposertor as like as not.”

“Everything that I’ve tried to do since Uncle Phineas left me that money folks have called me foolish or crazy, and I always was reckoned sensible before, if I was homely.  Abijah’s folks warn me against lettin’ John’s folks have it, and John’s folks against Abijah’s, and they say that banks burst up and railroad stocks are risky, and I’ll end by bein’ on the town.  I never heard anything about my bein’ in danger of comin’ on to the town before.  I put my savin’s in an old stockin’ between my beds, and wa’n’t beholden to anybody for advice nor anything.  I tell you, Mis’ Bemis, there ain’t a mite of comfort in riches to them that’s got nobody but themselves to do for.  Now, I’ve been wantin’ a good black silk for a long spell, and I’ve been layin’ by a little here and a little there, and ‘lottin’ on gettin’ it before long, and I’ve enjoyed thinkin’ about it jest as much as if I had it; and now that comfort is all took away.  I can go and buy one right out, and I don’t want it.  And only see what trouble I’ve got into about marryin’.  I can’t eat my victuals, and I don’t enjoy my meet’n’ privileges, and I don’t even care much about knowin’ what’s goin’ on.  The Bible says rich folks have got to go through the eye of a needle before they can get into the kingdom of heaven, and it seems jest as if that was what I was a-doin’.”

“I don’t think that’s jest the way it reads, Mirandy; but if it’s a consolin’ idee to you—­”

“I hain’t any too much consolation, and that’s a fact.  But it does seem real good to be here; and if you’ll jest send one of the boys after my things I’ll stay.  I locked up and left my bag on the back door-step.”

The poor-mistress confided to old lady Peaseley that “there wasn’t as much satisfaction in havin’ Mirandy as if she hadn’t got proputty, even if she didn’t seem to feel it none:  she couldn’t help feelin’ as if the minister ‘n’ his wife had come to tea;” and she opened the best room, with all its glories of hair-cloth furniture, preserved funeral wreaths, and shell Bunker Hill Monument, and had the spare chamber swept and garnished.  The poor-house was certainly a good place in which to get “chippered up.”  There were few happier households in the county; there was not one where jollity reigned as it did there.