“And though people do talk about him, they can’t say the things they say of Master Aaron Boynton. I don’t believe father would ever run away and desert us.”

“I fear not,” said Patty. “I wish the angels would put the idea into his head, though, of course, it wouldn’t be the angels; they’d be above it. It would have to be the ‘Old Driver,’ as Jed Morrill calls the Evil One; but whoever did it, the result would be the same: we should be deserted, and live happily ever after. Oh! to be deserted, and left with you alone on this hilltop, what joy it would be!”

Waitstill frowned, but did not interfere further with Patty’s intemperate speech. She knew that she was simply serving as an escape-valve, and that after the steam was “let off” she would be more rational.

“Of course, we are motherless,” continued Patty wistfully, “but poor Ivory is worse than motherless.”

“No, not worse, Patty,” said Waitstill, taking the bread-board and moving towards the closet. “Ivory loves his mother and she loves him, with all the mind she has left! She has the best blood of New England flowing in her veins, and I suppose it was a great come down for her to marry Aaron Boynton, clever and gifted though he was. Now Ivory has to protect her, poor, daft, innocent creature, and hide her away from the gossip of the village. He is surely the best of sons, Ivory Boynton!”

“She is a terrible care for him, and like to spoil his life,” said Patty.

“There are cares that swell the heart and make it bigger and warmer, Patty, just as there are cares that shrivel it and leave it tired and cold. Love lightens Ivory’s afflictions but that is something you and I have to do without, so it seems.”

“I suppose little Rodman is some comfort to the Boyntons, even if he is only ten.” Patty suggested.

“No doubt. He’s a good little fellow, and though it’s rather hard for Ivory to be burdened for these last five years with the support of a child who’s no nearer kin than a cousin, still he’s of use, minding Mrs. Boynton and the house when Ivory’s away. The school-teacher says he is wonderful at his books and likely to be a great credit to the Boyntons some day or other.”

“You’ve forgot to name our one great blessing, Waity, and I believe, anyway, you’re talking to keep my mind off the earrings!”

“You mean we’ve each other? No, Patty, I never forget that, day or night. ‘Tis that makes me willing to bear any burden father chooses to put upon us.—Now the bread is set, but I don’t believe I have the courage to put a needle into your tender flesh, Patty; I really don’t.”

“Nonsense! I’ve got the waxed silk all ready and chosen the right-sized needle and I’ll promise not to jump or screech more than I can help. We’ll make a tiny lead-pencil dot right in the middle of the lobe, then you place the needle on it, shut your eyes, and JAB HARD! I expect to faint, but when I ‘come to,’ we can decide which of us will pull the needle through to the other side. Probably it will be you, I’m such a coward. If it hurts dreadfully, I’ll have only one pierced to-day and take the other to-morrow; and if it hurts very dreadfully, perhaps I’ll go through life with one ear-ring. Aunt Abby Cole will say it’s just odd enough to suit me!”

“You’ll never go through life with one tongue at the rate you use it now,” chided Waitstill, “for it will never last you. Come, we’ll take the work-basket and go out in the barn where no one will see or hear us.”

“Goody, goody! Come along!” and Patty clapped her hands in triumph. “Have you got the pencil and the needle and the waxed silk? Then bring the camphor bottle to revive me, and the coral pendants, too, just to give me courage. Hurry up! It’s ten o’clock. I was born at sun-rise, so I’m ‘going on’ eighteen and can’t waste any time!”

III. DEACON BAXTER’S WIVES

FOXWELL BAXTER was ordinarily called “Old Foxy” by the boys of the district, and also, it is to be feared, by the men gathered for evening conference at the various taverns, or at one of the rival village stores.

He had a small farm of fifteen or twenty acres, with a pasture, a wood lot, and a hay-field, but the principal source of his income came from trading. His sign bore the usual legend: “WEST INDIA GOODS AND GROCERIES,” and probably the most profitable articles in his stock were rum, molasses, sugar, and tobacco; but there were chests of rice, tea, coffee, and spices, barrels of pork in brine, as well as piles of cotton and woolen cloth on the shelves above the counters. His shop window, seldom dusted or set in order, held a few clay pipes, some glass jars of peppermint or sassafras lozenges, black licorice, stick-candy, and sugar gooseberries. These dainties were seldom renewed, for it was only a very bold child, or one with an ungovernable appetite for sweets, who would have spent his penny at Foxy Baxter’s store.

He was thought a sharp and shrewd trader, but his honesty was never questioned; indeed, the only trait in his character that ever came up for general discussion was his extraordinary, unbelievable, colossal meanness. This so eclipsed every other passion in the man, and loomed so bulkily and insistently in the foreground, that had he cherished a second vice no one would have observed it, and if he really did possess a casual virtue, it could scarcely have reared its head in such ugly company.

It might be said, to defend the fair name of the Church, that Mr. Baxter’s deaconhood did not include very active service in the courts of the Lord. He had “experienced religion” at fifteen and made profession of his faith, but all well-brought-up boys and girls did the same in those days; their parents saw to that! If change of conviction or backsliding occurred later on, that was not their business! At the ripe age of twenty-five he was selected to fill a vacancy and became a deacon, thinking it might be good for trade, as it was, for some years. He was very active at the time of the “Cochrane craze,” since any defence of the creed that included lively detective work and incessant spying on his neighbors was particularly in his line; but for many years now, though he had been regular in attendance at church, he had never officiated at communion, and his diaconal services had gradually lapsed into the passing of the contribution-box, a task of which he never wearied; it was such a keen pleasure to make other people yield their pennies for a good cause, without adding any of his own!

Deacon Baxter had now been a widower for some years and the community had almost relinquished the idea of his seeking a fourth wife. This was a matter of some regret, for there was a general feeling that it would be a good thing for the Baxter girls to have some one to help with the housework and act as a buffer between them and their grim and irascible parent. As for the women of the village, they were mortified that the Deacon had been able to secure three wives, and refused to believe that the universe held anywhere a creature benighted enough to become his fourth.

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