“I call that pretty cider,” said Martin; “’tis young yet, but it has got some weight a’ready, and ‘tis smooth.  There’s a sight o’ difference between good upland fruit and the sposhy apples that grows in wet ground.  An’ I take it that the bar’l has an influence:  some bar’ls kind of wilt cider and some smarten it up, and keep it hearty.  Lord! what stuff some folks are willin’ to set before ye! ’tain’t wuth the name o’ cider, nor no better than the rensin’s of a vinegar cask.”

“And then there’s weather too,” agreed Mr. Jacob Dyer, “had ought to be took into consideration.  Git your apples just in the right time—­not too early to taste o’ the tree, nor too late to taste o’ the ground, and just in the snap o’ time as to ripeness’, on a good sharp day with the sun a-shining; have ’em into the press and what comes out is cider.  I think if we’ve had any fault in years past, ’t was puttin’ off makin’ a little too late.  But I don’t see as this could be beat.  I don’t know’s you feel like a pipe, but I believe I’ll light up,” and thereupon a good portion of black-looking tobacco was cut and made fine in each of the hard left hands, and presently the clay pipes were touched off with a live coal, and great clouds of smoke might have been seen to disappear under the edge of the fire-place, drawn quickly up the chimney by the draft of the blazing fire.

Jacob pushed back his chair another foot or two, and Martin soon followed, mentioning that it was getting hot, but it was well to keep out the damp.

“What set the women out to go traipsin’ up to Thacher’s folks?” inquired Jacob, holding his cider mug with one hand and drumming it with the finger ends of the other.

“I had an idee that they wanted to find out if anything had been heard about Ad’line’s getting home for Thanksgiving,” answered Martin, turning to look shrewdly at his brother.  “Women folks does suffer if there’s anything goin’ on they can’t find out about.  ’Liza said she was going to invite Mis’ Thacher and John to eat a piece o’ our big turkey, but she didn’t s’pose they’d want to leave.  Curi’s about Ad’line, ain’t it?  I expected when her husband died she’d be right back here with what she’d got; at any rate, till she’d raised the child to some size.  There’d be no expense here to what she’d have elsewhere, and here’s her ma’am beginnin’ to age.  She can’t do what she used to, John was tellin’ of me; and I don’t doubt ’t ’as worn upon her more’n folks thinks.”

“I don’t lay no great belief that John’ll get home from court,” said Jacob Dyer.  “They say that court’s goin’ to set till Christmas maybe; there’s an awful string o’ cases on the docket.  Oh, ’t was you told me, wa’n’t it?  Most like they’ll let up for a couple o’ days for Thanksgivin’, but John mightn’t think’t was wuth his while to travel here and back again ’less he had something to do before winter shets down.  Perhaps they’ll prevail upon the old lady, I wish they would, I’m sure; but an only daughter forsakin’ her so, ’twas most too bad of Ad’line.  She al’ays had dreadful high notions when she wa’n’t no more’n a baby; and, good conscience, how she liked to rig up when she first used to come back from Lowell!  Better ha’ put her money out to interest.”