University of Virginia Library

4. CHAPTER IV.

The Sabbath morning following these occurrences was still,
clear, and frosty; not a soul was stirring, and it seemed almost
as if the lonely cows of the settlement had forgotten to call
to each other from their scattered sheds.

At length, when the morning had well advanced, a window
in the house of Mr. Pynchon was raised, and a small
white signal hung out—an announcement of the hour, by
the only timepiece in the settlement. Immediately, from a
house within sight, a sturdy figure came forth, bearing a
very singular looking Sabbath burden. It was a drum, on
which the bearer proceeded to beat a brisk tattoo, which he
continued from one end of the street to the other, with such
interruptions in his rhythm as occasional snow-drifts and
unavoidable missteps would naturally produce.

The drum-beat changed the aspect of the village immediately.
Men, women, and children poured out of their
humble dwellings, and bent their steps towards Mr. Pynchon's
house, no meeting-house having been built, and that
being the largest house in the settlement,—large enough,
too, to hold all the white inhabitants without discomfort.

The first individuals who arrived were those the least
interested in the occasion—the apprentice boys. Among
them were those already introduced to the reader under
somewhat suspicious circumstances. The leader of this little
company was one Peter Trimble. It was he who opened
the door, put his head in to see if everything was right, put
it out again to assure his friends that the survey was satisfactory,
walked in, beckoned the others to follow, walked

across the floor, took his seat upon a rough-board, temporary
bench, motioned to the others to do the same, and then
winked significantly at John Pynchon. John looked at him
with gravity, but when he saw Peter thrust his hand into his
pocket, and change his little mass of features into a physiognomical
interjection, and give two or three emphatic forward
dodges of his head, as if he would have said, “Oh! John
Pynchon, you haven't the smallest possible idea what I've
got in my pocket—I'm dying to show it to you,” John could
not withstand the temptation, and, passing quietly across
the room, he took his seat near the mysterious Peter.

Peter's object was accomplished, and so, without making
any further allusion to the contents of a pocket that never
had a presentable occupant, except in chestnut time, he proceeded
to unroll, with slyly rustling whispers, the budget
of his gossip.

“Seen old Woodcock lately, John?”

“Yes.”

“What did he say?”

John looked around the room to see if he was observed,
but made no answer. As soon as the stamping at the door
gave opportunity, however, Peter resumed:

“When have you seen old Moxon?”

“I saw Mr. Moxon yesterday,” replied John, a little
indignant, as he knew that his father was liable to similar
familiar treatment.

“Oh! Mr. Moxon—yes! well—what did he say?”

“Said a good many things,” replied John, with his eyes
on his father.

“Anything about me?”

“I didn't hear anything; why?”

“Oh! the greatest row you ever see.”

“What was it?” inquired John.

“Oh! the darndest row—you've no idea.”

“Anybody hurt?”

“Well, no—not exactly hurt, but 'twas an old row,
now.”

“Don't talk quite so loud—tell me about it,” said
John cautiously, his curiosity having been considerably
excited.

“Well,” said Peter—“down to old Woodcock's on a
time t'other night—game o' cards on the board—pipes all
round—in come old Moxon, and pitched into us;—old
Woodcock drew off, and let him have—doubled him up—
these two fellows left—scat to death—we locked the door,
and I made the parson promise not to tell.”

“Peter,” said John, “I believe you are lying to me. I'll
ask the other boys to-morrow.”

“Well—'twas a great row, waan't it? Oh! you ought
to 'a been there.”

“I don't believe a word of it,” said John, his curiosity
having sunk into solemn disappointment and vexation at
being so heartlessly betrayed. Then rising, he took his
seat in another part of the room.

Peter had only made a commencement of his business.
His next care was to cover up his tracks. So, turning to
his companions, he informed them in broken whispers of the
story he had told John, and how John had swallowed the
whole thing, and only wished he had been one of the company
at Woodcock's.

“Now mind,” said Peter to the boys, “if John says anything
about this to you, you just back me up, and we'll
have the greatest kind of sport out of it.” This last assurance
was eked out with various animated nods and expressive
winks, tending to impress upon their minds the
infinite degree of satisfaction in store for them, if they
would but follow his instructions.

Peter was not exactly satisfied with the kind of assent he
had obtained to his propositions, and as soon as opportunity
was offered, by the noise occasioned by a new arrival, he

turned to his companions, and, assuming a threatening aspect
of countenance, and executing several fierce diagonal nods,
said, “You do just as I tell you, now; if you don't you'll
catch it. I'll duck you—I'll rub your face in the snow till
you can't see. You just try that once—I'll take it out of
your hide.”

How much further the redoubtable Peter would have
proceeded, had it not been for a slight interruption that
occurred at this moment, it is impossible to tell, but, as
adverse fortune would have it, he had become so much
absorbed in his own proceedings as to forget to keep an eye
out for those in progress around him, and just as he was
about to launch another thunderbolt at the heads of his
dumb and fearful friends, he felt a sharp rap upon his own
head, and, looking up hurriedly, he saw above him a long
stick, while at the other end of it stood Henry Smith, looking
at him in solemn reproof. Peter immediately appeared
to have a vision of an infinitely attenuated cobweb, swinging
somewhere in infinite space, and to have brought to
mind some favorite passage of scripture which, through the
almost unconscious machinery of his lips, he endeavored to
render verbatim to his inmost soul. When the bearer of
the rod became satisfied with the impression he had made,
he withdrew it, and gave it a convenient standing place
near his seat.

The assembly had become, during the few brief minutes
occupied by this side scene, an interesting and impressive
one. The most striking figure of the group—made so by
his age, intellectual appearance, and dress—was Mr. Pynchon.
Draped in a long, silver-buttoned coat that nearly
concealed his deer skin small-clothes, and the puffs and
rosettes that marked the junction of the latter with his hose,
with a broad collar or band of linen lying flat upon his
shoulders, and a closely fitting cap upon his head, he was
the impersonation of quiet dignity and patriarchal grace.

Near him sat his family—Mrs. Pynchon with her stiffly
starched and formidable ruff, that cast into comparative
insignificance the quiet face above and the prim form below;
Mary and John, side by side; and Henry Smith and his
wife, already introduced as the children, respectively, of
Mr. and Mrs. Pynchon. Henry Smith was, as an ancient
record of him declares, “a godly, wise young man,” and
both he and his wife bore that expression of earnest seriousness
that marked them as the possessors of a religion
that to them was an all-comprehending, all-informing reality.
There, too, was Jehu Burr, the carpenter, a short, pompous
man, who had within a few months become greatly important
in his own eyes for having been sent, in company with
Mr. Moxon, a deputy to Hartford; and by the side of him
his family. Others, whose names need not be called, filled
up the large room; and in each corner, near their owners,
stood the faithful muskets, which were the companions of the
colonists, alike in the field, the forest, and the house of God.

It was not until after all these were seated that Mr.
Moxon appeared, with his wife and one little child following
him. Mrs. Moxon was a small, nervous-looking woman,
with a sad expression of countenance, and a wild, wan look
about her dark eyes that indicated poor health, and a familiar
acquaintance with suffering. While the minister took
a central seat reserved for him, his wife and child found an
unobtrusive location among the audience, and sat down.

Then all was still for a moment, when the door was again
opened, and John Woodcock walked in, attended by his
daughter. He looked around upon the group, and the cold
looks which he met in return performed their usual office
upon him. His heart hardened as he stood, and he sat
down, steeled against every appropriate influence of the
time and place. Taking his seat near the door, and drawing
his girl between his knees, he gave himself up to his
old rebellious thoughts and bitter reflections.

All was silence again. The minister sat turning over a
book of the Psalms, and giving occasional utterance to an
ejaculation intended to prepare his throat for speaking, each
time recovering from the effort by an inhalation through
his nose, that gave forth a peculiar whistling sound which
had become familiar to the boys, and ludicrous through
Peter Trimble's attempts to imitate it. The ejaculation and
the whistle were given, at last, with unusual power, when
Peter, who sat with his arms folded very circumspectly,
managed to give a sly thrust with his finger into the ribs
of his next neighbor, when that individual, already fully
charged, gave utterance to an explosive snicker that brought
the long stick again into use, and smartly down upon his
hard little head.

Peter's vision of the infinitely attenuated cobweb, swinging
somewhere in infinite space, was renewed.

The space of time between the whistle and the laugh was
so small, that they assumed, in every mind, the relation of
cause and effect,—so much so, in fact, that Mr. Moxon was
sensibly irritated and discomposed, and, perhaps, without a
thought of what he was doing, he looked around and caught
Woodcock's eye. The expression that he met there did
not tend to re-assure him, but he arose and offered the opening
prayer, and then gave out, to be sung, the first Psalm.

Woodcock listened to the reading of the psalm, and grew
angry until it closed. He felt it to be, in effect, a public
reprimand, as well as a means of private revenge. So far
had he become incensed towards Mr. Moxon, by dwelling
on his supposed wrongs, that he believed him incapable of a
Christian feeling,—incapable of any feeling, in fact, in which
he had, or by possibility could have, any sympathy. But
when the singing was commenced, and the full, clear voice
of Mary Pynchon—rich in its revelations of hope and trust
and peace—interfused itself with, and rose above the harmony
of the simple choral, Woodcock closed his eyes, and
bowed his head upon his child's shoulder in deep emotion.
The huge logs were steaming on the hearth, and the sound,
mingling with the solemn song, brought back a vision of his
boyhood. Through the gathering mists of the past he
caught a glimpse of his mother singing at her distaff, and
of himself, sitting at the door, looking out into the sweet
summer rain.

And still the voice sang on, and the old logs hissed on
the hearth.

And then came up before him a calm, patient face—
courageous and resolute in its calmness and patience—the
face of one so true to him, so loving and so loyal, that at
last, travelling willingly in the hard path over which he had
called her to walk with him, she had fainted, lain down, and
died.

And still the voice sang on, and the old logs hissed on
the hearth.

And then came to him a realization—vague, perhaps, but
genuine—of the waywardness of his own heart, and its utter
perverseness under the influences which rested upon it, and,
as he apprehended the softening effect of the music of that
only voice that he heard or cared to hear, he wished that
the old logs would hiss on and the voice sing on for years,
and that at last he might arise a changed and happy man.
He felt that he was far from the possession of that perfect
blessedness attributed to the subject of the psalm whose
serious lesson was falling upon his ears; and yet he needed
it and longed for it, and felt that if circumstances were different
with him, he might have it yet, and be able at last
to lie down in the grave, wrapped in the confidence of a
blessed hope.

The singing ceased, and still the head of the father was
bowed upon the shoulder of his child. Another prayer—
long, fervent, and full of the heartfelt expression of Christian
aspiration—was pronounced, and Woodcock, softened, and
longing for a peace which his heart told him was somewhere,
in something, waiting for him, joined in the supplication—feebly
and imperfectly, as a man unused to prayer
—and laid the burden of his soul upon the utterance of one
whose words, but a few brief moments before, had come to
him only with malevolent suggestions. When the prayer
was closed, he longed to hear the Bible read. He wished
for no words from man; but the reading of the Great Book
in the public exercises of the Sabbath, at that day, was a
forbidden service. So, lifting his eyes to Mr. Moxon, with
a stern resolution to keep out his bad thoughts, if possible,
he listened for the announcement of his text.

“But after thy hardness and impenitent heart, treasurest
up unto thyself wrath against the day of wrath, and revelation
of the righteous judgment of God.”

Woodcock shook his head, arose from his seat, placed his
girl upon the bench, and then, taking his gun, opened the
door and retired from the house. The charm was broken—
the hallowed and hallowing influence dissipated. The transition
to his old feeling of hardness and half-regretful
defiance was accompanied by a sigh as painful as it was
profound, and by the characteristic exclamation, “It's no
use.”

Mr. Moxon waited, before proceeding, for the restoration
of silence, but order and attention were not secured for
some minutes. Both Mr. Pynchon and Mary understood
and appreciated the cause of Woodcock's withdrawal, and
felt disturbed. Peter Trimble's curiosity was very much
aroused. Bending down in a mock effort to fix his shoe,
he exclaimed to the victim at his side, in a low whisper,
“Indians!”

The boy was instantaneously and involuntarily on his
feet, his neck stretched up, looking out of the window.
Down came the long stick of Henry Smith upon his head,
and down came the boy. The stick was so near to Peter
that his glimpse of the cobweb was this time extremely
brief and uncertain.

As soon as the sermon had begun to attract serious attention,
Peter made another errand to his shoe, and whispered,
“What did you see?”

“Stars,” replied the boy, unconscious of anything but his
last impression.

This reply came near proving too much for Peter's
gravity, and it was a long time before he could command
himself with sufficient confidence to raise his head.

At the termination of the services of the morning, little
Mary Woodcock, who had sat with her eyes fixed upon
Mary Pynchon through the greater portion of the time
they had occupied, rose, and stood by the door, while the
congregation passed her in retiring. The look of recognition

and the smile for which she waited were at last secured,
and she turned half reluctantly to leave the house.

During all this time, Peter Trimble, with a respectfulness
for which he was not notorious, had lingered behind the
congregation, and allowed them to precede him in the way
homeward. As the little girl left the door, he was at her
side.

Slightly touching her arm, as if he imagined that he was
touching the most costly fabric, he said, in his most impertinent
and sly way, “Some folks wear good clothes, and
some folks wear poor clothes. Some people's fathers are
rich—and some ain't. You don't remember what that hood
cost, do you? It's beautiful, it's—”

“I wish you'd go 'long off, and go home,” exclaimed
Mary, turning upon him, her eyes flashing with anger.

“But, Molly, where d'you get your new clothes?” persisted
Peter, in his bantering way.

“None of your business, you plague,” replied Mary, in
the same angry voice.

“Well, do you know there's been several things missed
from the clothes lines lately, round here?” insinuated the
remorseless Peter. “Some people lays it to Injuns, and
some don't.”

“If you don't let me alone, I'll go back and tell Mr.
Pynchon,” said Mary, stopping firmly in the path, and
looking Peter fiercely in the face.

“Tell him of what?” inquired Peter, coolly. “What
have I said? Won't you have the goodness to tell me
what I've said? I hav'n't said anything. I only said some
people lays it to Injuns and some don't. I think it's wild
cats.”

There was something so tormentingly insulting in the
last insinuation, that Mary involuntarily, and as quick as
lightning, struck him a singing blow in his face. Peter,
for the moment, lost his temper, and, taking the girl by the

shoulder, he pitched her into the snow. The scream which
she gave as she fell brought the family to the window at
Mr. Pynchon's house, and a beckoning hand called Peter
back, while Mary ran, crying at the top of her lungs, towards
home. Peter arrived at Mr. Pynchon's, and was
called in, as he expected to be. His cheek was still red
with the effect of Mary's blow, which he assured the family
was given him by the girl in return for his politeness in
endeavoring to assist her to rise, after she had accidentally
fallen in the snow.

“I am afraid that girl has a temper too much like that
of her father,” remarked Henry Smith, who, with his wife,
had remained in the house.

“I believe,” said Mary, earnestly, “that this boy has not
told the truth. I think Mary Woodcock would never have
struck him had she not been seriously provoked.”

Peter protested his innocence in a tone of voice that
showed that his tender spirit had been wounded to the
quick by so terrible an accusation. At this moment, the
frugal Sabbath dinner was declared to be in readiness, and
he was told to remain until its conclusion, that the matter
of his difficulty with the little girl might have a further
examination.

“What do you suppose Woodcock retired for to-day?”
inquired Ann Smith of her father, as they sat down to
dinner.

“I suppose that he did not like the text which Mr. Moxon
selected for his discourse,” replied Mr. Pynchon.

“The carnal mind is enmity against God,” said Henry
Smith, solemnly. “How little the man understands that
the degree of offensiveness which God's truth possesses for
him is the measure of his own iniquity, and of his need to
have that truth enforced upon him. How little he understands
that the more the medicine displeases him, the more
he needs it.”

“This may all be very true,” replied Mr. Pynchon, “but
it seems to me that a little wisdom is necessary in choosing
that class of Bible truths for Sabbath themes which will not
drive men beyond the reach of any truth.”

“All Scripture is profitable,” replied the son. “The
Word of God, in all its purity, is to be preached, whether
they will bear, or whether they will forbear. I see not how
a man of God can consult expediency in the slightest degree.
His duty is plain, and he may only go on and do it, and
leave the result with God.”

Mr. Pynchon had been somewhat in the habit of masking
his real opinions and sentiments in relation to many important
subjects while in the presence of his family, because
they came in collision with the prevailing opinions and
sentiments around him. He felt perhaps, that were his
family to think as freely as himself, they might get into
difficulty by a too frank expression of their thoughts, and
he possibly shrank from the responsibility of inflicting upon
them the doubts and disquietude that spring from conscious
differences with a prevalent faith. But this occasion was
too important, and the lesson too necessary, to be neglected.
Accordingly, he very fully gave his opinions upon the subject
that had been introduced.

“The office of the Christian minister,” said Mr. Pynchon,
“I regard as the highest and the noblest which a man can
be called upon to assume. The minister is the man who
stands in Christ's stead, beseeching his fellow men to be
reconciled to God. He is also, in the fullest sense, a servant
of Christ—bound to adopt his policy, to be filled with his
spirit, to be informed and inspired with his life, and to
overflow, in every word and action, with that love to all
mankind that shall lead him in his daily social intercourse,
and in his public religious duties, to choose his means of
grace with a wisdom and an unfailing perception of adaptedness
that shall render impossible all serious offence. The

minister who dwells upon some favorite dogma, as if its
establishment were of more consequence than the salvation
of a soul; who cares more for the maintenance of some
point of opinion, in which his personal pride is involved,
than the maintenance of faith in some trembling believer;
who does not study every heart with which he comes in
contact, to see precisely the kind of spiritual food it requires;
who deals out his store of threatenings and promises indiscriminately;
or worse—deals out threatenings where promises
were better, is a man not thoroughly furnished for his
position, and not fitted for his work. My opinion is that a
minister, perfectly fitted for his office, never offends, and
that, if he have any positiveness of character, the number
of his offensive applications of truth will indicate the measure
of his unfitness for his office. Men with the common share
of human reason, respect earnestness, honesty, and self-devotion,
wherever they see it; and when those qualities
are united with an all-comprehending love of those for
whom Christ died, that shines in every smile, is manifest in
every action, and modulates the tone of every utterance,
sin receives its rebuke in respectful silence, malice melts in
meekness, and error, pride, and even bigotry's self, bow,
for the moment at least, to an influence which they have
neither the power to resist nor the motive to resent.”

“I believe it—every word of it,” responded Mary,
modestly, but firmly.

“I would not dispute with my father, certainly,” said
Henry Smith, who recognised parental respect as a Christian
duty, “but it seems to me that he virtually apologizes for
John Woodcock, and blames Mr. Moxon.”

“And I will not dispute with my son,” said Mr. Pynchon,
with a meaning smile. “It is barely possible that John
Woodcock is not naturally so bad a man as he is thought
to be, and that Mr. Moxon has made a mistake in his treatment
of him.”

“Still,” replied the son, with a deferential bow, “I think
it is our duty to yield our assent to the teachings of our
ministers. They are placed in the church to watch over us
in matters of doctrine and duty, and while it is their duty
to be faithful, it is ours to yield to them the respect due
their high office.”

“You do not mean, brother,” said Mary, laughing, “that
you would cheat so innocent a thing as an office, of so valuable
a thing as respect, by paying its due to its occupant, do you?”

“I do not chop logic on Sunday,” replied the brother,
with a faint smile.

During the progress of this conversation, Mrs. Pynchon
had been exercised in a somewhat singular manner. She
reverenced her husband, but loved her son, and she saw and
very thoroughly apprehended the nature of their difference.
Therefore with a wish to reconcile their views, and strike a
fair balance between them, she had arranged her ideas for a
remark or two, but, by a perverse misfortune, they became
confused before she had fairly commenced their utterance.
“I think,” said the old lady, “that anybody who gets
offended with a good gospel sermon, is not worth minding
anything about. I don't say anything against Goodman
Woodcock, but I do say that when we've got a good minister,
we ought to—to make the most of him” (slightly breaking
down) “especially—especially”—(losing the thread
entirely) “as we pay him a better salary than we can afford,
and have settled the ministry lands on him.”

This resolution of the discussion was conclusive, if not
satisfactory, and as the family drew back from the table,
John pointed his finger to the window and exclaimed, somewhat
excitedly, “There comes John Woodcock, father!”

All turned their eyes in the direction indicated. He came
towards the house with a lowering brow, bearing in his
hand a small bundle tied up in a cotton handkerchief. He
knocked at the door, and was admitted.

During all this time, Peter Trimble had stood, waiting in
the room the conclusion of the meal, and had not only taken
observation of everything within the reach of his active
vision, but had carefully noted and remembered the nature
and bearing of the conversation. No sooner was John
Woodcock's coming announced, however, than he turned
extremely pale in the face, and trembled in every limb.
Flight was not feasible, or he would have fled.

As Woodcock entered the room, he walked up to the lad,
planted his huge hand upon his trembling head, and, gathering
his stiffly curling hair within the grasp of his fingers,
turned his face back in order to bring it to a proper angle
of observation. The tears began to ooze from the boy's
eyes as if Woodcock were wringing water from his hair, or
had the fountain of tears directly under pressure.

“You beautiful feller, you,” said Woodcock, “how glad
you be to see me! Don't know when I've met anybody in
some time that was so overcome. You darlin' boy! You
musn't let your feelin's get the start of you in this 'ere way.
You're too delicate for this country. P'raps you never
heerd of a little roastin' pig that went squealin' and squealin'
round, and stickin' his nose into children's porringers, and
rootin' up people's garden patches, till the butcher thought
he was too tender for this world, and accidentally run a
knife into him, did you? It's awful to be tender. I've
known people to lose all the hair they had that way.”

The boy had withstood the torture as long as he could,
without absolutely bellowing with pain, and as the premonitions
of an unpleasant outcry made themselves manifest,
Woodcock relaxed his grasp upon the hair, and, looking
him in the face a moment longer, removed his hand, and
apologetically expressed the hope that he had not detained
him from dinner, or interrupted any important business.
The lad needed no hint from any quarter to induce him to
retire, and the moment he was released he left the house.

John Pynchon watched him with a not ungratified air, as
he walked homewards jerking his head with a half-rotary
nod, which might have been taken as an expression of impotent
anger, or a wish to ascertain whether that organ was
still in location.

As he retired, Woodcock turned to the family, and, with
an earnest and respectful look, which was somehow tinged
with his late anger, he said, “I beg pardon for skinning my
eels here, but I thought I'd 'tend to it, 'fore they slipped
out of my fingers. I didn't come here to do it, cause I
didn't know the boy was here, but I'm glad it's done and
over with, and I guess he is. I come here to do a harder
job. I've been thinkin', since I went out this mornin', that
savin' me won't hardly pay, when you come to take it all
round—the trouble it's costin' others—and the trouble it's
costin' me. It's so natural for me to hate a mean man, and
a narrer man, that I know I never'd learn to like one without
gettin' mean and narrer myself. Mr. Moxon and I can't
hitch hosses together. Come to tie to the same post,
there'll be bitin' and kickin'.”

Mr. Pynchon suggested that perhaps Woodcock had
better sleep upon his anger, or at least defer what he might
have to say until another day.

“No, Square,” said Woodcock, “you musn't choke me
off—let me go through this time, and I won't bother you
again. I know it ain't proper Sunday business, but I want
to get it off my mind. As I was sayin', savin' me won't
pay. There aint but one way to do it, and it seems 's 'ough
that would spile me. I can't give up hatin' men that it aint
nater to love, and if I did get so I could kind o' stand 'em,
I couldn't foller their halter nor work in their harness.”

The family listened to this singular demonstration in
silence. Henry Smith sat uneasily, as if he would like to
argue the point, and as if he deemed it the duty of some
one to do it; but as his father made no reply, he said

nothing. No one except the favorite daughter, Mary, had
the slightest apprehension of the impression that Woodcock
made upon Mr. Pynchon. This apprehension was
vague, as it must have been, with no more definite communication
between them than that borne along the lines
of a magnetic sympathy, but it was none the less real for
lacking expression.

The truth was, that Mr. Pynchon was hardly able to
speak. He saw in the rough man before him, himself—the
form dwarfed, the face distorted, and the features dimly
defined, perhaps, as if the mirror were an agitated pool of
turbid water—but still true to the essence of his constitution,
and the outline of his moral conformation. He despised
Woodcock's vices, he lamented his perversity of
temper, and was saddened in the view of his unchastened
will; but he honored the frankness of his nature, and that
unbending freedom of his spirit, which led him to feel the
touch of a shackle as he would the sting of a viper, and to
spurn the one with his hand as he would the other with his
heel.

Woodcock waited for a moment, for some one to speak,
but as every one remained silent, he walked up to where
Mary Pynchon was sitting, and untying, tremblingly and
in silence, the little bundle he still retained in his hand, he
placed, one after another, in her lap, the articles she had
given to his daughter. During this movement he had not
looked in her face, but as he concluded it, and placed his
handkerchief in his pocket, he caught a vision of her sad
eyes, brimming with tears.

“God bless you, Miss Pynchon! Don't cry, and don't
think I ain't human to fetch back these things, but I couldn't
keep 'em. It's kind to the gal to fetch 'em. Everybody
knows where they come from, and I've just had to pay off
one little runt for twittin' her about it.”

“You pain me very much,” replied Mary. “I am sure

you are over sensitive in this matter. Besides, your daughter
really needs the clothes.”

“Well, I don't dispute it, but if you wont say anything
about it, the gal shall be took care of. She shall be took
care of for you. I can't take these duds away with me, so
it's no use talkin', but I'm just as thankful to you as I ever
was, and love your good heart just as much.”

“But,” said Mr. Pynchon, pleasantly, “it seems to me
that your excuse for depriving your daughter of comfortable
clothes does not amount to much.”

“Well, Square, if I must tell the whole on't,” said Woodcock,
straightening up desperately, and extending his
brawny arm for an emphatic gesture, “I don't feel in fightin'
trim with them clothes on that gal. I feel as if an angel
had got a mortgage on me, and I'm afeared she'll foreclose
some time when it ain't convenient.”

No one could withhold a smile at this abrupt and characteristic
conceit, and under the cover of the smile Woodcock
retreated, and bent his steps homeward, leaving Mary gazing
downwards upon her present, thus strangely returned,
and busy in revolving the motive that bore it companionship.