when I see him walk in, and I could ’a wrung his neck; but I guess I misjudged him; he was called a stiddy boy.  He married a daughter of Ichabod Pinkham’s over to Oak Plains, and I saw a son of his when I was taking care of Miss West last spring through that lung fever—­looked like his father.  I wish I’d thought to tell him about that Sunday.  I heard he was waiting on that pretty Becket girl, the orphan one that lives with Nathan Becket.  Her father and mother was both lost at sea, but she’s got property.”

“What did they say in church when the captain came in, Aunt Polly?” said I.

“Well, a good many of them laughed—­they couldn’t help it, to save them; but the cap’n he was some hard o’ hearin’, so he never noticed it, and he set there in the corner and fanned him, as pleased and satisfied as could be.  The singers they had the worst time, but they had just come to the end of a verse, and they played on the instruments a good while in between, but I could see ’em shake, and I s’pose the tune did stray a little, though they went through it well.  And after the first fun of it was over, most of the folks felt bad.  You see, the cap’n had been very much looked up to, and it was his misfortune, and he set there quiet, listening to the preaching.  I see some tears in some o’ the old folks’ eyes:  they hated to see him so broke in his mind, you know.  There was more than usual of ’em out that day; they knew how bad he’d feel if he realized it.  A good Christian man he was, and dreadful precise, I’ve heard ’em say.”

“Did he ever go again?” said I.

“I seem to forget,” said Aunt Polly.  “I dare say.  I wasn’t there but from the last of June into November, and when I went over again it wasn’t for three years, and the cap’n had been dead some time.  His mind failed him more and more along at the last.  But I’ll tell you what he did do, and it was the week after that very Sunday, too.  He heard it given out from the pulpit that the Female Missionary Society would meet with Mis’ William Sands the Thursday night o’ that week—­the sewing society, you know; and he looked round to us real knowing; and Cousin Statiry, says she to me, under her bonnet, ’You don’t s’pose he’ll want to go?’ and I like to have laughed right out.  But sure enough he did, and what do you suppose but he made us fix over a handsome black watered silk for him to wear, that had been his sister’s best dress.  He said he’d outgrown it dreadful quick.  Cousin Statiry she wished to heaven she’d thought to put it away, for Jacob had given it to her, and she was meaning to make it over for herself; but it didn’t do to cross the cap’n and Jacob Gunn gave Statiry another one—­the best he could get, but it wasn’t near so good a piece, she thought.  He set everything by Statiry, and so did the cap’n, and well they might.