“I declar’ it does look as if Abel was mournin’,” remarked Betsey Bottom to Sarah on a September afternoon several months later.  “It ain’t suprisin’ in his case seein’ he jest married her to get even with Molly.”

“I don’t believe myself in settin’ round an’ nursin’ grief,” responded Sarah, “a proper show of respect is well an’ good, but nobody can expect a hearty, able bodied man to keep his thoughts turned on the departed.  With women, now, it’s different, for thar’s precious little satisfaction some women get out of thar husbands till they start to wearin’ weeds for ’em.”

“You’ve worn weeds steady now, ain’t you, Mrs. Revercomb?”

Sarah set her mouth tightly.  “They were too costly to lay away,” she replied, and the words were as real a eulogy of her husband as she had ever uttered.

“It’s a pity Abel lost Molly Merryweather,” said Betsey.  “Is thar any likelihood of thar comin’ together again?  Or is it true—­as the rumour keeps up—­that she is goin’ to marry Mr. Jonathan befo’ many months?”

“It ain’t likely she’ll throw away all that good money once she’s got used to it,” said Sarah.  “For my part, I don’t hold with the folks that blamed her for her choice.  Thar ain’t many husbands that would be worthy of thar hire, an’ how was she to find out, till she tried, if Abel was one of those few or not?”

“He al’ays seemed to me almost too promisin’ for his good looks, Mrs. Revercomb.  I’m mighty partial to looks in a man, thar ain’t no use my denyin’ it.”

“Well, I ain’t,” said Sarah, “they’re no mo’ than dross an’ cobwebs in my sight, but we’re made different an’ thar’s no sense arguin’ about tastes—­though I must say for me that I could never understand how a modest woman like you could confess to takin’ pleasure in the sight of a handsome man.”

“Well, immodest or not, I hold to it,” replied Betsey in as amiable a manner as if there had been no reflection upon her refinement.  “Abel stands a good chance for the legislature now, don’t he?”

“I ain’t a friend to that, for I never saw the man yet that came out of politics as clean as he went into ’em, and thar ain’t nothin’ that takes the place of cleanness with me.”  In her heart she felt for Betsey something of the contempt which the stoic in all ranks of life feels for the epicurean.

At supper that night Sarah repeated this conversation, and to her astonishment, not Abel, but Blossom, went pitiably white and flinched back sharply as if fearing a second fall of the lash.

“I don’t believe it!  Mr. Jonathan will never marry Molly.  There’s no truth in it!” she cried.

Over the coffee-pot which she has holding, Sarah stared at her in perplexity.  “Why, whatever has come over you, Blossom?” she asked.

“You haven’t been yo’self for a considerable spell, daughter,” said Abner, turning to her with a pathetic, anxious expression on his great hairy face.  “Do you feel sick or mopin’?”