The afternoon was perfect, and we took things leisurely, letting the reins swing from the hook,--an arrangement to which Mr. Tripp’s old gray was entirely agreeable,--and, leaning back against the buggy-cushions, wound along among the strong, sweet pine-smells, lazily talking or lazily silent, as the spirit moved, and as only two people who thoroughly understand and like each other can talk or be silent. We rode home by Deacon Quirk’s, and, as we jogged by, there broke upon our view a blooming vision of the Deacon himself, at work in his potato-field with his son and heir, who, by the way, has the reputation of being the most awkward fellow in the township. The amiable church-officer, having caught sight of us, left his work, and coming up to the fence “in rustic modesty unscared,” guiltless of coat or vest, his calico shirt-sleeves rolled up to his huge brown elbows, and his dusty straw hat flapping in the wind, rapped on the rails with his hoe-handle as a sign for us to stop. “Are we in a hurry?” I asked, under my breath. “O no,” said Aunt Winifred. “He has somewhat to say unto me, I see by his eyes. I have been expecting it. Let us hear him out. Good afternoon, Deacon Quirk.” “Good afternoon, ma’am. Pleasant day?” She assented to the statement, novel as it was. “A very pleasant day,” repeated the Deacon, looking for the first time in his life, to my knowledge, a little undecided as to what he should say next. “Remarkable fine day for riding. In a hurry?” “Well, not especially. Did you want anything of me?” “You’re a church-member, aren’t you, ma’am?” asked the Deacon, abruptly. “I am.” “Orthodox?” “O yes,” with a smile. “You had a reason for asking?” “Yes, ma’am; I had, as you might say, a reason for asking.” The Deacon laid his hoe on the top of the fence, and his arms across it, and pushed his hat on the back of his head in a becoming and argumentative manner. “I hope you don’t consider that I’m taking liberties if I have a little religious conversation with you, Mrs. Forceythe.” “It is no offence to me if you are,” replied Mrs. Forceythe, with a twinkle in her eye; but both twinkle and words glanced off from the Deacon. “My wife was telling me last night,” he began, with an ominous cough, “that her niece, Clotildy Bentley--Moses Bentley’s daughter, you know, and one of your sentimental girls that reads poetry, and is easy enough led away by vain delusions and false doctrine--was under your charge at Sunday-school. Now Clotildy is intimate with my wife,--who is her aunt on her mother’s side, and always tries to do her duty by her,--and she told Mrs. Quirk what you’d been a saying to those young minds on the Sabbath.” He stopped, and observed her impressively, as if he expected to see the guilty blushes of arraigned heresy covering her amused, attentive face. “I hope you will pardon me, ma’am, for repeating it, but Clotildy said that you told her she should have a pianna in heaven. A _pianna_, ma’am!”