"I don't take much stock in old maids. The likeliest person I know, and I wouldn't call her an old maid, either, is Abilonia Supe. Her mother was counted the best breadmaker in North Sudbury, and Abby was the neatest darner in her class at sewing school." "But, why, Marthy, isn't Abby promised to Willy Parks?" "No; I asked Mis' Parks about that yisterday. She said Willy had been waitin' on Abby for four or five years, but they'd had a misunderstandin' this summer, and it was broke off for good." "He ought to be horsewhipped!" said Andrew warmly. "Abilonia Supe is the finest girl in North Sudbury." "Ye-es," admitted Marthy reluctantly. "You're sure she wouldn't be too young for you, are you?" "Too young? For me? I don't want to marry my grandmother, I guess. And I'm not Methusalem myself," and he shook the stoop out of his back and spread the thin hair across his bald spot. His wife looked at him in wondering surprise. "Abby has had rather a hard time since her mother died," she said weakly. "Indeed she has, and she deserves to have it easy now. She needs somebody to take care of her if that scamp--and she isn't bad lookin', either--Abby isn't. I tell you, Marthy, there isn't your beat in the hull town for managin' forethoughtedness. Sick or well, you've allus ben a captain at managin'. Now, come to think it over, this isn't a bad idee. But, how'll we git her consent? Maybe I'd better step over and--well--ruther lead up to the subject. I might--" "That dish water's a-b'ilin', Andrew. It's a-b'ilin' hard. I c'n hear it." Andrew started briskly for the kitchen, and the dishes clattered merrily. An hour later he framed himself in the doorway in his Sunday clothes. "I have to go down to the store this afternoon to git that baggin' for the hops, and I can jest as well 's not go round by Supes' and--sort of--talk that over with Abby--and tell her your wishes. I never deny you nothin', Marthy; you know that. If it'll be any comfort to you, I'll jest brace up and do it, no matter how hard it is." "Well--say, Andrew, wait a minute. Maybe you'd better wait till we talk it over a little more. I might consult with Abby, myself, on the subject--An-ndrew! An-ndrew! That man is gittin' a good deal deafer'n he'll own to." It was quite supper time when Andrew returned; it was too late to cook anything, so he brought Marthy some of the Sunday baked beans and brown bread, with the cider apple sauce. "Well, you must 'a' had a time of it with her," suggested his wife as he placed the tray. "I hope you didn't do more'n make a suppositious case and find out what her sentiments was."