“What stranger cometh to see me out of a world of darkness and sin? Who claims me as his kinsman?” And his voice was as cold as a axe in a December mornin,’ jest as cold and icy. “It is Josiah Allen, Uncle Zebulin, don’t you know me? and this is Samantha.” (And Josiah again made a fearful effort to smile.) But Zebulin Coffin drew his hands back, and folded ’em up under his coat-skirts, and looked at Josiah a minute or two in complete stillness, and his mean was as cold as a thermomiter hangin’ up right on the North pole. It was a awful time. Finally he spoke: “I remember you Josiah Allen; you tarried with us occasionally in your youthful days. The last time you were here you snickered at prayer time, one of my own ungodly sons piercin’ you with a pin. Have you repented of your sinful ways, Josiah Allen? Are you weary of husks?” Oh! how wretched and meachin’ Josiah Allen looked. He felt too mean to speak, and Uncle Zebulin went on: “If you are weary of husks and tired of swine, I can forgive you Josiah. Have you repented? Are you worthy of forgiveness? Speak, Josiah Allen; have you come to eat of the fatted calf?” If Josiah Allen had been a sheep, a full blooded merino, he couldn’t have looked any more sheepish. Jest at that minute a real sweet voice, but sort o’ sad like, called out from the other side of the house: “Supper’s ready, father.” And then Zebulin Coffin ungripped his hands from under his coat tails, and shook hands first with Josiah and then with me. But it was done in such a way that takin’ the clammy feelin’ of his hand, and the cold icy look of his eye, and his name bein’ Coffin, and all, I declare I felt jest as if I was at a funeral, and was one of the first mourners. A prettier girl than Molly Coffin I don’t want to see! Nater is likely and well behaved,—does lots of work too; but sometimes through havin’ so much on her mind, I s’pose the old gal gits frisky and cuts up curious capers. And if she had made a rosebud spring up and blow out in a dark suller bottom, it wouldn’t have been a mite curiouser caper than for such a blossom of a girl to blow out of such a soil as the Deacon’s soil.