“Then we ought to be a happy and contented community here in Riverboro,” replied Jane, “as there's six women to one man.” “If 't was sixteen to one we'd be all the safer,” responded Miranda grimly, putting the doughnuts in a brown crock in the cellar-way and slamming the door. II The Perkins horse and wagon rumbled along over the dusty country road, and after a discreet silence, maintained as long as human flesh could endure, Rebecca remarked sedately: “It's a sad errand for such a shiny morning, isn't it, Mr. Perkins?” “Plenty o' trouble in the world, Rebecky, shiny mornin's an' all,” that good man replied. “If you want a bed to lay on, a roof over your head, an' food to eat, you've got to work for 'em. If I hadn't 'a' labored early an' late, learned my trade, an' denied myself when I was young, I might 'a' be'n a pauper layin' sick in a loggin' cabin, 'stead o' bein' an overseer o' the poor an' selectman drivin' along to take the pauper to the poor farm.” “People that are mortgaged don't have to go to the poor farm, do they, Mr. Perkins?” asked Rebecca, with a shiver of fear as she remembered her home farm at Sunnybrook and the debt upon it; a debt which had lain like a shadow over her childhood. “Bless your soul, no; not unless they fail to pay up; but Sal Perry an' her husband hadn't got fur enough along in life to _be_ mortgaged. You have to own something before you can mortgage it.” Rebecca's heart bounded as she learned that a mortgage represented a certain stage in worldly prosperity. “Well,” she said, sniffing in the fragrance of the new-mown hay and growing hopeful as she did so; “maybe the sick woman will be better such a beautiful day, and maybe the husband will come back to make it up and say he's sorry, and sweet content will reign in the humble habitation that was once the scene of poverty, grief, and despair. That's how it came out in a story I'm reading.” “I hain't noticed that life comes out like stories very much,” responded the pessimistic blacksmith, who, as Rebecca privately thought, had read less than half a dozen books in his long and prosperous career. A drive of three or four miles brought the party to a patch of woodland where many of the tall pines had been hewn the previous winter. The roof of a ramshackle hut was outlined against a background of young birches, and a rough path made in hauling the logs to the main road led directly to its door. As they drew near the figure of a woman approached--Mrs. Lizy Ann Dennett, in a gingham dress, with a calico apron over her head. “Good morning, Mr. Perkins,” said the woman, who looked tired and irritable. “I'm real glad you come right over, for she took worse after I sent you word, and she's dead.”