Katy in the carriage which Morris sent around, excusing himself from coming on the plea of being too busy, but saying he would join them at tea, if possible.  Wilford’s mind was not yet fully made up, so he concluded to remain another day and see more of Katy’s family.  Accordingly, after dinner, he bent his energies to read them all, from Helen down to Aunt Betsy, the latter of whom proved the most transparent of the four.  Arrayed again in the pongee, but this time without the hoop, she came into the parlor, bringing her calico patchwork, which she informed him was pieced in the “herrin’ bone pattern” and intended for Katy; telling him, further, that the feather bed on which he slept was also a part of “Catherine’s setting out,” and was made from feathers she picked herself, showing him as proof a mark upon her arm, left there by the gray goose, which had proved a little refractory when she tried to draw a stocking over its head.

Wilford groaned, and Katy’s chance for being Mrs. Cameron was growing constantly less and less as he saw more and more how vast was the difference between the Barlows and himself.  Helen, he acknowledged, was passable, though she was not one whom he could ever introduce into New York society; and he was wondering how Katy came to be so unlike the rest, when Uncle Ephraim came up from the meadow, and announced himself as ready now to visit, apologizing for his apparent neglect, and seeming so absolutely to believe that his company was, of course, desirable, that Wilford felt amused, wondering again what Juno, or even Mark Ray, would think of the rough old man, sitting with his chair tipped back against the wall, and going occasionally to the outside door to relieve himself of his tobacco juice, for chewing was one of the deacon’s weaknesses.  His pants were faultlessly clean, and his vest was buttoned nearly up to his throat, but his coat was hanging on a nail out by the kitchen door, and, to Katy’s distress and Wilford’s horror, he sat among them in his shirt sleeves, all unconscious of harm or of the disquiet awakened in the bosom of the young man, who on that point was foolishly fastidious, and who showed by his face how much he was annoyed.  Not even the presence of Morris, who came in about tea time, was of any avail to lift the cloud from his brow, and he seemed moody and silent until supper was announced.  This was the first opportunity Morris had had of trying his powers of persuasion upon the deacon, and now, at a hint from Katy, he said to him in an aside, as they were passing into the dining-room:  “Suppose, Uncle Ephraim, you put on your coat for once.  It is better than coming to the table so.”

“Pooh,” was Uncle Ephraim’s innocent rejoinder, spoken loudly enough for Wilford to hear, “I don’t need it an atom.  I shan’t catch cold, for I am used to it; besides that, I never could stand the racket this hot weather.”