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We came by my friends, the apple-trees, on our return, and I saw a row of old-fashioned square bee-hives near them, which I had not noticed before. Miss Cynthia told me that the bee money was always hers; but she lost a good many swarms on account of the woods being so near, and they had a trick of swarming Sundays, after she’d gone to meeting; and, besides, the miller-bugs spoilt ’em; and some years they didn’t make enough honey to live on, so she didn’t get any at all. I saw some bits of black cloth fluttering over the little doors where the bees went in and out, and the sight touched me strangely. I did not know that the old custom still lingered of putting the hives in mourning, and telling the bees when there had been a death in the family, so they would not fly away. I said, half to myself, a line or two from Whittier’s poem, which I always thought one of the loveliest in the world, and this seemed almost the realization of it. Miss Cynthia asked me wistfully, “Is that in a book?” I told her yes, and that she should have it next time I came up, or had a chance of sending it. “I’ve seen a good many pieces of poetry that Mr. Whittier wrote,” said she. “I’ve got some that I cut out of the paper a good while ago. I think everything of ’em.”

“I put the black on the hives myself,” said she. “It was for mother, you know. She did it when father died. But when my brother was lost, we didn’t, because we never knew just when it was; the schooner was missing, and it was a good while before they give her up.”

“I wish we had some neighbours in sight,” said she once. “I’d like to see a light when I look out after dark. Now, at my aunt’s, over to Eliot, the house stands high, and when it’s coming dark you can see all the folks lighting up. It seems real sociable.”

We lingered a little while under the apple-trees, and watched the wise little bees go and come; and Miss Cynthia told me how much Georgie was like his grandfather, who was so steady and quiet, and always right after his business. “He never was ugly to us, as I know of,” said she; “but I was always sort of ‘fraid of father. Hannah, she used to talk to him free’s she would to me; and he thought, ‘s long’s Hannah did any thing, it was all right. I always held by my mother the most; and when father was took sick,–that was in the winter,–I sent right off for Hannah to come home. I used to be scared to death, when he’d want any thing done, for fear I shouldn’t do it right. Mother, she’d had a fall, and couldn’t get about very well. Hannah had good advantages. She went off keeping school when she wasn’t but seventeen, and she saved up some money, and boarded over to the Port after a while, and learned the tailoress trade. She was always called very smart,–you see she’s got ways different from me; and she was over to the Port several winters. She never said a word about it, but there was a young man over there that wanted to keep company with her. He was going out first mate of a new ship that was building. But, when she got word from me about father, she come right home, and that was the end of it. It seemed to be a pity. I used to think perhaps he’d come and see her some time, between voyages, and that he’d get to be cap’n, and they’d go off and take me with ’em. I always wanted to see something of the world. I never have been but dreadful little ways from home. I used to wish I could keep school; and once my uncle was agent for his district, and he said I could have a chance; but the folks laughed to think o’ me keeping school, and I never said any thing more about it. But you see it might ‘a’ led to something. I always wished I could go to Boston. I suppose you’ve been there? There! I couldn’t live out o’ sight o’ the woods, I don’t believe.”