Abel churned until the butter came, and it took full long, and his fine waistcoat was spattered with cream; and then she sent him home like a little boy. Lydia found many another domestic task for Abel Perkins, and all on the porch. She set him carding flax, and spinning, and making candle-wicks. She found errands also for him to do, and many commands for him to obey. She sent him to Abington with a couple of feather pillows for her aunt, and awkwardly enough he managed them on horseback. She forbade his going to Boston on a little trip with some of the village young men, Freelove being of the party. Abel Perkins never rebelled against her rule, but there came a time when Lydia herself arose for him. One afternoon he sat on the porch spinning at the wheel, and Lydia had tied one of her blue aprons around his waist, when she suddenly spoke. “Take off that apron now, and stop spinning, and go home, Abel Perkins,” said she. Abel jumped up, and stared at her. “I mean what I say,” said she. “If you are not ashamed for yourself, I am ashamed for you, and I am ashamed for myself more than I am for you. No man can make a woman like him by doing everything she tells him to; she only despises him for it. You remember it next time. Now you had better go home and learn your Latin books.” “Can’t I come again, Lydia?” said Abel. He was quite pale, and tears stood in his eyes. But Lydia would not speak softly to him. “No,” she replied, “you can’t. You mustn’t come here wasting your time any more. You must study your books. You are not old enough to go courting; get your college books learned through first.” “Can I come then, Lydia?” he inquired, faintly. “No,” said she; “I shall never want anybody coming again. Take off that apron and go home.” And Abel Perkins obeyed. He looked very dejected and youthful going out of the yard. Lydia went into the house and cried. Abel stayed away for a week; then he came again. Lydia would not have gone to the door had she known who it was plying the knocker. She never heard the knocker but with a hope that it might be Freelove, although he never came now. When she saw Abel standing there, she frowned. “Don’t look at me so, Lydia,” he pleaded. “I couldn’t help coming. I can’t eat, and I haven’t slept any. I’m sick, Lydia. Mother keeps asking me what the matter is.” Indeed Abel looked ill; he was paler than usual, and had a pinched and woe-begone expression that drew his face down, and made it appear thinner. “Well, you come in,” said Lydia. “I’m going to mix you up some medicine, if you’re sick. I know a very good one that my father showed me how to make. It’ll cure you right up, Abel.” And Lydia made Abel seat himself on the settle in the keeping-room, and went with a cup and spoon to the cupboard in the fore room, where her father’s old gallipots were kept. Then she took from this and that, and mixed carefully, and returned to Abel. “Here, drink this,” said she.