Upon a certain night of later October, after Almira has retired, and when the Tourtelots are seated by the little fire, which the autumn chills have rendered necessary, and into the embers of which the Deacon has cautiously thrust the leg of one of the fire-dogs, preparatory to a modest mug of flip, (with which, by his wife's permission, he occasionally indulges himself,) the good dame calls out to her husband, who is dozing in his chair,-- "Tourtelot!" But she is not loud enough. "TOURTELOT! you're asleep!" "No," says the Deacon, rousing himself,--"only thinkin'." "What are you thinkin' of, Tourtelot?" "Thinkin'--thinkin'," says the Deacon, rasped by the dame's sharpness into sudden mental effort,--"thinkin', Huldy, if it isn't about time to butcher: we butchered last year nigh upon the twentieth." "Nonsense!" says the dame; "what about the parson?" "The parson? Oh! Why, the parson'll take a side and two hams." "Nonsense!" says the dame, with a great voice; "you're asleep, Tourtelot. Is the parson goin' to marry, or isn't he? that's what I want to know"; and she rethreads her needle. (She can do it by candle-light at fifty-five, that woman!) "Oh, marry!" replies the Deacon, rousing himself more thoroughly,--"waael, I don't see no signs, Huldy. If he _doos_ mean to, he's sly about it; don't you think so, Huldy?" The dame, who is intent upon her sewing again,--she is never without her work, that woman!--does not deign a reply. The Deacon, after lifting the fire-dog, blowing off the ashes, and holding it to his face to try the heat, says,-- "I guess Almiry ha'n't much of a chance." "What's the use of your guessin'?" says the dame; "better mind your flip." Which the Deacon accordingly does, stirring it in a mild manner, until the dame breaks out upon him again explosively:-- "Tourtelot, you men of the parish ought to _talk_ to the parson; it a'n't right for things to go on this way. That boy Reuben is growin' up wild; he wants a woman in the house to look arter him. Besides, a minister ought to have a wife; it a'n't decent to have the house empty, and only Esther there. Women want to feel they can drop in at the parsonage for a chat, or to take tea. But who's to serve tea, I want to know? Who's to mind Reuben in meetin'? He broke the cover off the best hymn-book in the parson's pew last Sunday. Who's to prevent him a-breakin' all the hymn-books that belong to the parish? You men ought to speak to the parson; and, Tourtelot, if the others won't do it, you _must_." The Deacon was fairly awake now. He pulled at his whiskers deprecatingly. Yet he clearly foresaw that the emergency was one to be met; the manner of Dame Tourtelot left no room for doubt; and he was casting about for such Scriptural injunctions as might be made available, when the dame interrupted his reflections in more amiable humor,--