Of course, quite a commotion came from this.  Dorcas raised her shrill voice pretty high, and Grandma, though she had been innocent of the whole transaction, was so blamed that she gave Dorcas a piece of her mind at last.  Ann surveyed the nice brown loaves, and listened to the talk in secret satisfaction; but she had to suffer for it afterward.  Grandma punished her for the first time, and she discovered that that kind old hand was pretty firm and strong.  “No matter what you think or whether you air in the rights on’t, or not, a little gal mustn’t ever sass her elders,” said Grandma.

But if Ann’s interference was blamable, it was productive of one good result—­the matter came to Mr. Atherton’s ears, and he had a stern sense of justice when roused, and a great veneration for his mother.  His father’s will should be carried out to the letter, he declared; and it was.  Grandma baked and boiled in peace, outwardly, at least, after that.

Ann was a great comfort to her; she was outgrowing her wild, mischievous ways, and she was so bright and quick.  She promised to be pretty, too.  Grandma compared her favorably with her own grandchildren, especially Mrs. Dorcas’s eldest daughter Martha, who was nearly Ann’s age.  “Marthy’s a pretty little gal enough,” she used to say, “but she ain’t got the snap to her that Ann has, though I wouldn’t tell Atherton’s wife so, for the world.”

She promised Ann her gold beads, when she should be done with them, under strict injunctions not to say anything about it till the time came; for the others might feel hard as she wasn’t her own flesh and blood.  The gold beads were Ann’s ideals of beauty and richness, though she did not like to hear Grandma talk about being “done with them.”  Grandma always wore them around her fair, plump old neck; she had never seen her without her string of beads.

As before said, Ann was now very seldom mischievous enough to make herself serious trouble; but, once in a while, her natural propensities would crop out.  When they did, Mrs. Dorcas was exceedingly bitter.  Indeed, her dislike of Ann was, at all times, smouldering, and needed only a slight fanning to break out.

One stormy winter day Mrs. Dorcas had been working till dark, making candle-wicks.  When she came to get tea, she tied the white fleecy rolls together, a great bundle of them, and hung them up in the cellar-way, over the stair, to be out of the way.  They were extra fine wicks, being made of flax for the company candles.  “I’ve got a good job done,” said Mrs. Dorcas, surveying them complacently.  Her husband had gone to Boston, and was not coming home till the next day, so she had had a nice chance to work at them, without as much interruption as usual.