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“Perhaps the young one would ha’ come to without none; they do survive right through everything, an’ then again they seem to be taken away right in their tracks.” Sister Pinkham grew more talkative as she cooled. “Heard any news as you come along?”

“Some,” vaguely responded Mr. Teaby. “Folks ginerally relates anythin’ that’s occurred since they see me before. I ain’t no great hand for news, an’ never was.”

“Pity ’bout you, Uncle Teaby! There, anybody don’t like to have deaths occur an’ them things, and be unawares of ’em, an’ the last to know when folks calls in.” Sister Pinkham laughed at first, but said her say with spirit.

“Certain, certain, we ought all of us to show an interest. I did hear it reported that Elder Fry calculates to give up preachin’ an’ go into the creamery business another spring. You know he’s had means left him, and his throat’s kind o’ give out; trouble with the pipes. I called it brown caters, an’ explained nigh as I could without hurtin’ of his pride that he’d bawled more ‘n any pipes could stand. I git so wore out settin’ under him that I feel to go an’ lay right out in the woods arterwards, where it’s still. ‘T won’t never do for him to deal so with callin’ of his cows; they’d be so aggravated ‘t would be more ‘n any butter business could bear.”

“You hadn’t ought to speak so light now; he’s a very feelin’ man towards any one in trouble,” Sister Pinkham rebuked the speaker. “I set consider’ble by Elder Fry. You sort o’ divert yourself dallying round the country with your essences and remedies, an’ you ain’t never sagged down with no settled grievance, as most do. Think o’ what the Elder’s be’n through, a-losin’ o’ three good wives. I’m one o’ them that ain’t found life come none too easy, an’ Elder Fry’s preachin’ stayed my mind consider’ble.”

“I s’pose you’re right, if you think you be,” acknowledged the little man humbly. “I can’t say as I esteem myself so fortunate as most. I ‘in a lonesome creatur’, an’ always was; you know I be. I did expect somebody ‘d engage my affections before this.”

“There, plenty ‘d be glad to have ye.”

“I expect they would, but I don’t seem to be drawed to none on ’em,” replied Mr. Teaby, with a mournful shake of his head. “I’ve spoke pretty decided to quite a number in my time, take ’em all together, but it always appeared best not to follow it up; an’ so when I’d come their way again I’d laugh it off or somethin’, in case ‘t was referred to. I see one now an’ then that I kind o’ fancy, but ‘t ain’t the real thing.”

“You mustn’t expect to pick out a handsome gal, at your age,” insisted Sister Pinkham, in a business-like way. “Time’s past for all that, an’ you’ve got the name of a rover. I’ve heard some say that you was rich, but that ain’t every thin’. You must take who you can git, and look you up a good home; I would. If you was to be taken down with any settled complaint, you’d be distressed to be without a place o’ your own, an’ I’m glad to have this chance to tell ye so. Plenty o’ folks is glad to take you in for a short spell, an’ you’ve had an excellent chance to look the ground over well. I tell you you’re beginnin’ to git along in years.”

“I know I be,” said Mr. Teaby. “I can’t travel now as I used to. I have to favor my left leg. I do’ know but I be spoilt for settlin’ down. This business I never meant to follow stiddy, in the fust place; ‘t was a means to an end, as one may say.”

“Folks would miss ye, but you could take a good long trip, say spring an’ fall, an’ live quiet the rest of the year. What if they do git out o’ essence o’ lemon an’ pep’mint! There’s sufficient to the stores; ‘t ain’t as ‘t used to be when you begun.”