A Saturday in early autumn was drawing near its close, and the family had finished supper, though it was not yet dark. Like all country folk of their station in life, they ate in the kitchen, a building separate from the house. There were “Grandmother Tyler,” a sweet-faced old woman, with silvery hair smoothed away under a red silk kerchief folded cornerwise and tied under her chin; and her son, “Father Tyler,” with his fifty-odd years showing themselves in his grizzled hair and beard; and “Mother Tyler,” a brisk stout woman, with great strength of character in her strong features, black eyes, and straight black hair. Her neighbors declared that she was the “main stake” in the “Tyler fence.” The children were “Mandy Calline,” the eldest, and her mother's special pride, built on the same model with her mother; Joseph Zachariah, a long-legged youth; Ann Elisabeth, a lanky girl; Susan Jane, and Jeems Henry, or “Little Jim,” to distinguish him from his father; and last, but by no means least in the household, came the baby. When she was born Mrs. Tyler declared that as all the rest were named for different members of both families, she should give this wee blossom a fancy name, and she had the desire of her heart, and the baby rejoiced in the name of Elthania Mydora, docked off into “Thancy” for short. They had risen from the table, and Father Tyler had hastened to his mother's side as the old lady moved slowly away, and taking her arm, guided her carefully to the house, for the eyes in the placid old face, looking apparently straight before her, were stone-blind. “Come, now, gals,” said Mother Tyler, briskly, with the baby in her arms, “make er hurry 'n' do up th' dishes. Come, Ann Elisabeth, go ter scrapin' up, 'n', Mandy Calline, pour up th' dish-water.” “Ya'as, yer'd better make er hurry,” squeaked “Little Jim,” from his perch in the window, “fer Mandy Calline's spectin' her beau ter-night.” “Ye'd best shet up yer clatter, Jim, lest ye know what yer talkin' erbout,” retorted Mandy Calline, with a pout, making a dash at him with the dish-cloth. “Yer right, Jim,” drawled Joseph Zachariah, lounging in the doorway. “I heerd Zeke White tell 'er he was er-comin' ter-night.” “Mar--” began Mandy Calline, looking at her mother appealingly. “Shet up, you boys,” came in answer. “Zachariah, ha' ye parted th' cows 'n' calves?” “No, 'm.” “Then be erbout it straight erway. Jim--you Jeems Henry!” “Ya'as, 'm,” from outside the window. “Go 'n' shet up the hen-'ouse, 'n' see ef th' black hen 'n' chickens ha' gone ter roost in there. She'll keep stayin' out o' nights till th' fox 'll grab 'er. Now, chillen, make 'er hurry 'n' git thee in here. Come, Thaney gal, we'll go in th' house 'n' find pappy 'n' gra'mammy. Susan Jane, come fetch th' baby's ole quilt 'n' spread it down on th' floor fer 'er”; and Mother Tyler repaired to the house with the baby in her arms. “Why, mother, ye in here by yerself? I tho't Jeems Henry was with yer.”