“Yes, I know, Emily, the previous marriage would be held as the only lawful tie, but it is much better than it might have been.  She has a good home and parents, and is young.  Years will restore her.  I cannot see, however, why she should have taken the pains to find him here.”

“For the reason that she desires to plead with him for the wife and boys that are in need, and is a strong noble woman too,—­why, she will have the strength of a lion when she gets well, and there is a resolute determination on her part to place before Mr. Benton a plain picture of his duty.”

“Hem!” said Aunt Hildy, “she can get her picture all ready and put on the prettiest paint in the market,—­that man will be gone in less than twenty-four hours.  Can’t I see which way his sails are set?” Our back door-sill never was swept cleaner than where this sentence fell.

“That may be,” said mother; “I hope he will, for it seems to me we have too great a duty to perform if he stays.  I feel ill able to undertake the task.”

Aunt Hildy turned to hang up her broom, saying as she did so: 

“I’d like to have your sister Phebe give him a lecture—­she’d tear him all to pieces jest as easy as shellin’ an ear of corn.  I like to hear her talk; she ain’t afraid of all the lies that can be invented.  What a good hit she give Deacon Grover that night when he come in with his ideas of nothin’ spillin’ over.  She talked good common sense, and hew as the subject, for it was all about a hypocrite.  He did’nt stay to see if he could get a mug of cider to save his own, but set mighty uneasy and was off for home before eight o’clock.  That done me good.”

That evening was spent by me in conversation with Louis.  Next morning at the breakfast table the subject of the poor lamb was not broached, and directly after, when the stage came along, Mr. Benton took it to go to the village on business.

“There,” said Aunt Hildy, “he never’ll step on to this door-sill again—­but I would’nt throw a horseshoe after him if I knew it would be good luck.  He don’t deserve any.”

“Why, he hasn’t taken as much as a carpet-bag,” said my father, “of course, he will be back again.”

“No, sir, Mr. Minot; that feller is up to snuff—­he ain’t going to stop now for any duty pictures,” and she turned to her work as if satisfied with having made a true prophecy.

I spoke to Clara about going over to see Miss Harris, and she felt inclined to go that morning.

“Louis, too, may go,” she said.  “Come, dear boy.”

We were very welcome, and found Miss Harris seated in the old rush-chair before the fire-place.  Her dress was a most becoming wrapper of blue (she found it in Clara’s bundle) her hair falling as on the previous day in natural curls, and the same India shawl thrown over her sloping shoulders.  She was exactly Clara’s size, and when the two came together, Clara said, “We are sisters surely.”