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“They got a dreadful blow, poor gals,” wheezed Mrs. Forder, with compassion. “‘T was harder for them than for most folks; they’d had a long stent with the ol’ gentleman; very arbitrary, very arbitrary.”

“Yes,” answered Mrs. Downs, pushing back her tea-cup, then lifting it again to see if it was quite empty. “Yes, it took holt o’ Hannah, the most. I should ‘a’ said Betsey was a good deal the most set in her ways an’ would ‘a’ been most tore up, but ‘t wa’n’t so.”

“Lucky that Holt’s folks sets on the other aisle in the meetin’-house, I do consider, so ‘t they needn’t face each other sure as Sabbath comes round.”

“I see Hannah an’ him come face to face two Sabbaths afore Enoch left. So happened he dallied to have a word ‘long o’ Deacon Good’in, an’ him an’ Hannah stepped front of each other ‘fore they knowed what they’s about. I sh’d thought her eyes ‘d looked right through him. No one of ’em took the word; Enoch he slinked off pretty quick.”

“I see ’em too,” said Mrs. Forder; “made my blood run cold.”

“Nothin’ ain’t come of the curse yit,”–Mrs. Downs lowered the tone of her voice,–“least, folks says so. It kind o’ worries pore Phoebe Holt–Mis’ Dow, I would say. She was narved all up at the time o’ the trial, an’ when her next baby come into the world, first thin’ she made out t’ ask me was whether it seemed likely, an’ she gived me a pleadin’ look as if I’d got to tell her what she hadn’t heart to ask. ‘Yes, dear,’ says I, ‘put up his little hands to me kind of wonted’; an’ she turned a look on me like another creatur’, so pleased an’ contented.”

“I s’pose you don’t see no great of the Knowles gals?” inquired Mrs. Forder, who lived two miles away in the other direction.

“They stepped to the door yisterday when I was passin’ by, an’ I went in an’ set a spell long of ’em,” replied the hostess. “They’d got pestered with that ol’ loom o’ theirn. ‘Fore I thought, says I, ”T is all worn out, Betsey,’ says I. ‘Why on airth don’t ye git somebody to git some o’ your own wood an’ season it well so ‘t won’t warp, same’s mine done, an’ build ye a new one?’ But Betsey muttered an’ twitched away; ‘t wa’n’t like her, but they’re dis’p’inted at every turn, I s’pose, an’ feel poor where they’ve got the same’s ever to do with. Hannah’s a-coughin’ this spring’s if somethin’ ailed her. I asked her if she had bad feelin’s in her pipes, an’ she said yis, she had, but not to speak of ‘t before Betsey. I’m goin’ to fix her up some hoarhound an’ elecampane quick’s the ground’s nice an’ warm an’ roots livens up a grain more. They’re limp an’ wizened ‘long to the fust of the spring. Them would be service’ble, simmered away to a syrup ‘long o’ molasses; now don’t you think so, Mis’ Forder?”

“Excellent,” replied the wheezing dame. “I covet a portion myself, now you speak. Nothin’ cures my complaint, but a new remedy takes holt clever sometimes, an’ eases me for a spell.” And she gave a plaintive sigh, and began to knit again.

Mrs. Downs rose and pushed the supper-table to the wall and drew her chair nearer to the stove. The April nights were chilly.

“The folks is late comin’ after me,” said Mrs. Forder, ostentatiously. “I may’s well confess that I told ’em if they was late with the work they might let go o’ fetchin’ o’ me an’ I’d walk home in the mornin’; take it easy when I was fresh. Course I mean ef ‘t wouldn’t put you out: I knowed you was all alone, an’ I kind o’ wanted a change.”

“Them words was in my mind to utter while we was to table,” avowed Mrs. Downs, hospitably. “I ain’t reelly afeared, but ‘t is sort o’ creepy fastenin’ up an’ goin’ to bed alone. Nobody can’t help hearkin’, an’ every common noise starts you. I never used to give nothin’ a thought till the Knowleses was robbed, though.”