Breakfast finished, all became bustle and stir. Grandmother slipped briskly to her large, wool spinning-wheel. She was white-haired and full of years, but still she plied her task of spinning energetically and skilfully. She had learned it long before in a shire of England where wool was raised and made into cloth. Grandmother was graceful and dignified in carriage; for many years of her life she had walked back and forth at her wheel, lightly poised and alert. She lifted her spinning-wheel, and, with awkward help from Thomas, carried it into Mother Andrew’s room. [Illustration: Plate II. Colonial Fireside] [Illustration: Figure 7. Wool Spinning-Wheel] “I must needs be out of thy way, Mary Jane, and will spin in thy mother’s room to-day.” But Grandmother soon returned, holding the baby in the crook of her left arm. She seated herself near the fire and unwrapped many layers of soft woolen covers from little Samuel. Dipping her elbow into the basin of warm water at her side, she found it just right and bathed the baby quickly, wrapped him again in the folds of the flannel, and retied his little cap. She then put him in the cradle, and called Thomas to rock him to sleep. [Illustration: Figure 8. A Cradle] Mary Jane told her brothers and sisters what she expected of each of them before she pulled out her rolling-board and started to make pie-crust. Abigail banged the churn dasher up and down and thought eagerly of the pewter and brasses to be polished. “Thomas, methinks the wee child must be asleep. Stretch up to this churn dasher and prove yourself a dashing knave,” she said. [Illustration: Figure 9. Wooden Churn] “Abigail, teach not to children such play on words,” chided Mary Jane. Abigail frowned and said, “You were not always so proper in your speech, Mary Jane, before John Lewis came a-courting.” Mary Jane, flushed and flustered, knocked her cap awry, and accidentally wiped a floury hand across her cheek. “Do you suppose that I shall be thus improved when someone comes a-courting me?” Abigail went on. “What do you think John Lewis may have made you? He has had time enough for many a turn of the hand. It is full three months since the whaler put out from Gloucester. Do you think that even a slow-witted fellow like your John may have speed in his fingers? Perchance he whittles faster than he talks?” “Abigail,” Mary Jane interrupted, “the butter must have come. Run out to the well for fresh water. I will gather the butter while you are gone. Curb your saucy tongue, sister. Mistress Dodd is coming up the road with her pot of beans, and I would not have her hear your foolish gossip.”