While these thoughts were running through my mind, Matthias’ voice was heard, a moment more and he was saying: 

“Guess he’s done gone sure dis time; he drink an fiddle, an fiddle an’ drink; and nex’ ting I knowed he’s done dar at the feet of dem stars all in a heap by hisself.”

“Who’s that?” I cried.

“Plint, Miss.  He’s done gone, sure, an’ I came roun’ to get some help ‘bout totin’ him up stars.  Can’t do nothin’, an’ Mis’ Smith she’s jes gone scart into somebody else.  She don’t ‘pear to know nuthin’, an’ when I say help me, she jest stan’ an’ holler like mad.”

“I’ll go over,” said Aunt Hildy, wiping her hands, and turning for sun bonnet and cape.

“I’ll go,” said Hal.

“Me, too,” cried Ben, and off they started.

Poor Plint was gone, surely enough; dead, “a victim to strong drink and fiddlin’,” Aunt Hildy said.  His funeral was from the church, for we all respected Aunt Peg and pitied Plint, and Mr. Davis only spoke of God’s great mercy and his tenderness to all his flock; never putting a word of endless torment in it.

Poor Aunt Peg had great misgivings concerning Plint, and groaned audibly throughout the entire service.  Matthias was a great comfort to her through her trouble, and she told Clara and me when we called on her, that he was not as clean as she wished, but he was a mighty comfort to her, and the greatest blessing Aunt could have sent.  Plint’s fiddle hung against the wall in her little room with whitened floor and straight-back chairs, and I could not keep back the tears when I noticed that she had a bunch of wild violets tied to the old bow.  She noticed it and burst into tears herself, crying: 

“That there fiddle was no use no way, but seems now I kinder reckon on ’t.”  She was true to these intuitions of the soul, these thoughts that cover tenderly even the remembrance of a wasted life, and we could not but think that if Plint had not loved cider so well, he might perhaps have developed rare musical talent.

I had been true to myself as far as Mr. Benton was concerned, and since our last stormy interview, treated him with respectful indifference.  He had two or three times attempted to bring about a better state of affairs, but I could not and did not give him any encouragement.  I felt wronged and also justified in the establishment of myself where I should be safe from greater trouble at his hands.

The first day of July, the day for Louis’ coming, dawned auspiciously, and I was as happy as a bird.  It seemed to me my trouble was nearly over, and Louis, when he came in at our door that night, looked admiringly at me, and after supper he said: 

“Emily, you are growing beautiful, do you know it?”

“I hope so,” I said honestly, “you know how homely I have always been.”

“No, no, I do not, you have been to me my royal Emily ever since I first met you.”

“I must have compared strangely with your city friends and their bewildering costumes.”