“I am afraid that I shall always need mine to the last thread. I have lost the trick of outgrowing them. O, have you heard that Mrs. Bowers’s sister has come from the west? Arrived last evening.” “Land sakes alive! Why, I guess I’ll run right over. Sally and me was thick as peas in our young days. And her husband’s been a what you call it out there, senate, or constitution, or something.” “Member of the legislature,” corrected father, quietly. “O, yes. Some folks _do_ get along. There’s the middle of my needle. I should knit there if the house was afire!” She brushed down her skirts, put her knitting in her satchel, jerked her shawl up, and pinned it, and settled her old black bonnet more askew than ever. Mrs. Whitcomb kindly pulled it straight for her. “Thank’ee. If you want any help, Mrs. Whitcomb, send right straight over. Ministers are always the chosen of the Lord, and I feel as if one ought to come at their call.” “I am much obliged,” returned Mrs. Whitcomb, in her quiet, lady-like way. Mrs. Downs took her departure at the same moment. There was a great bustle, and talking; but father finally succeeded in getting them to the porch. When Aunt Letty was safely off the steps, she turned and said,— “I’m glad you are so well satisfied, Mr. Endicott. It’s a sure sign of grace to take thankfully what the Lord sends.” “O, dear,” said papa, with a sigh; “I am afraid I don’t give thanks for _quite_ everything. ‘Tribulation worketh patience.’ But didn’t those women almost set you crazy? If I thought another sermon on bridling the tongue would do any good; I should preach it next Sunday.” Mrs. Whitcomb smiled and said, in her cool, silvery voice,— “It takes a great deal of powder and shot to kill a man in battle, and it takes a great deal of preaching to save a soul.” “Yes. I get almost discouraged when I find how strong the old Adam is in human souls.” I looked at papa rather reproachfully; but just then he opened the door of mamma’s room, and called me thither. Mamma was very sweet and lovely. She kissed me many times, and hoped I would prove a trusty house-keeper, and see that papa had everything he needed, especially to notice that his cuffs and handkerchiefs were clean, and that he was in nice order on Sunday. “And—did I like the baby?” She asked it almost bashfully. “It is just as sweet as it can be. I only wish it was large enough to hold and to carry about.” “Thank you, dear.” Years afterwards I knew what that meant. I went out to the kitchen to see about the dinner. We never had regular servants like other people. It was the lame, and the halt, and the blind, and the ignorant, metaphorically speaking. Papa brought them home and mamma took pity on them. Now it was Becky Sill, a great, overgrown girl of sixteen, whose intemperate father had just died in the poorhouse, where the three younger children—boys—were waiting for a chance to be put out to the farmers.