“Be still, both of you! I sh'd think you'd be ashamed, with everybody here so! Oh, my soul and body!” turning to the company, “if it ain't enough to try a saint! Sometimes seems's if I SHOULD give up. You be thankful, Abigail,” to Miss Mullett, who sat by the door, “that you ain't got nine in a family and nobody to help teach 'em manners. If Barzilla was like most men, he'd have some dis-CIP-line in the house; but no, I have to do it all, and--” Mr. Small, thus publicly rebuked, rose from his seat in the corner by the melodeon and proclaimed in a voice that he tried hard not to make apologetic: “Now, Luther, if I was you I'd be a good boy and mind ma.” Even this awe-inspiring command had little effect upon the reluctant Luther, but Captain Eri, who, smiling and bowing right and left, had been working his passage to the other side of the room, announced that he was all right and would “squeeze in on the sofy 'side of Cap'n Baxter.” So there was peace once more, that is, as much peace as half a dozen feminine tongues, all busy with different subjects, would allow. “Why, Eri” whispered John Baxter, “I didn't expect to see you here. I'm glad, though; Lord knows every God-fearin' man in this town has need to be on his knees this night. Have you heard about it?” “Cap'n John means about the rum-sellin' license that Web Saunders has got,” volunteered Miss Melissa Busteed, leaning over from her seat in the patent rocker that had been the premium earned by Mrs. Small for selling one hundred and fifty pounds of tea for a much-advertised house. “Ain't it awful? I says to Prissy Baker this mornin', soon 's I heard of it, 'Prissy,' s' I, 'there 'll be a jedgment on this town sure's you're a livin' woman,' s' I. Says she, 'That's so, M'lissy,' s' she, and I says--” Well, when Miss Busteed talks, interruptions are futile, so Captain Eri sat silent, as the comments of at least one-tenth of the population of Orham were poured into his ears. The recitation was cut short by Mrs. Small's vigorous pounding on the center table. “We're blessed this evenin',” said the hostess with emotion, “in havin' Mr. Perley with us. He's goin' to lead the meetin'.” The Reverend Mr. Perley--Reverend by courtesy; he had never been ordained--stood up, cleared his throat with vigor, rose an inch or two on the toes of a very squeaky pair of boots, sank to heel level again and announced that everyone would join in singing, “Hymn number one hundred and ten, omitting the second and fourth stanzas: hymn number one hundred and ten, second and fourth stanzas omitted.” The melodeon, tormented by Mrs. Lurania Bassett, shrieked and groaned, and the hymn was sung. So was another, and yet another. Then Mr. Perley squeaked to his tiptoes again, subsided, and began a lengthy and fervent discourse.