OU wouldn't wish for a pleasanter person round the house," Mrs. Somers was replying to her gossip. "I never heerd him say so much as 'Why do you so?' to the cat. And she's a very masterly cat
"He ain't spoke to Si Martin this twenty year."
"Si Martin's be'n out West. He couldn't very well. Si done him an ill turn oncet an' he ain't forgot it. That's one o' his dreams."
"Wal—fer a perfesser—"
"Now stop right there, Phœbe Ann. John's allers said his religion warn't
nothin' ter speak on, an' he ain't made no blow about it."
"He don't seem much like a deacon. Young for one, anyways."
"Mebbe. But they jes 'p'inted him 'count o' his gift fer prayer an' his singin' o' hymns. I guess likely he's forgot w'at the diff'runce 'ith Si was about; but he ain't forgot there was a diff'runce. And as he don' git mad in a year o' Sundays, reason was on his side mos' prob'bly. We was down to the foot o' the garding lookin' fer a brown-thrasher's nest in the brush-heap, him an' me; and I says, 'Si Martin's gone out West,' says I. And he says, 'Glory go with him,' says he. 'I don't ever wanter hear his name agin,' says he. And I ain't ever heerd him speak that name since. Here's Si Martin back agin to the ol' place, you're a-tellin' me. Lost his wife? Only a gel left ter keep house fer him? I'm pleased that it's a mile or more away acrost the hills. But John 'll have to pass the bread and wine to him, ef he comes ter meetin', and I do'no' how he'll do it! An' that's a fac'!"
"P'r'aps they'll go to chapel over there," said the resourceful Phœbe Ann.
"Hope to goodness!" said Mrs. Somers, clapping the flour off her hands. "There! You stay to supper, Phœbe Ann, an' see ef this rule ain't as good as yourn."
"Not ter-night; I'm obleeged t' ye," said Phœbe Ann, whose mind's eye saw further openings for her views in other places. It was Mrs. Somers's proud but silent boast that her kitchen floor was as white as the tops of her tables, and its yellow walls unspotted. Perhaps it was the cheerfulness of all that whiteness and brightness and of her own large, fair personality that made Deacon Somers naturally reflect it. But, as his wife had said, he was a pleasant person about the house, and it was greatly to her surprise that her husband took his seat at the supper table without a word that night, and helped himself to the creamed, codfish and baked potatoes without waiting on either his wife or the boys.
"W'y, father," said Mrs. Somers, "where's your manners!" and at that he helped the others mechanically, wasting no words; and for a brief time a visible cloud settled over the table.
The silence was broken by the irrepressible Bud, who exclaimed, between mouthfuls, "They say Mr. Si Martin's come back to the old place."
"I'm willin'," said his father, without looking up.
"It don't reely sound as though you was," said his wife.
The man could have given her a glance that would have finished her happiness for this life. But he didn't. For how could you tell your wife that you hated another man because he won away from you the girl you meant to marry! Especially when your wife was as precious to you as your heart's blood. The girl had died, and so had her children, all but the last, and it did not signify now a tear's worth to him; but all the same he never wanted to see or hear of Si Martin again.
The soft June night with its star-shine and shadows and flower scents cast its soothing spell over him and his irate mood of recollection, and when his wife came and sat beside him on the door-stone he slipped his arm over her shoulder. "I don' want no better wife 'n you be, Elviry," he said.
"My gracious, John, I sh'd think you'd be'n a-questionin' of it!"
"Somehow the smell o' them syringys fetched back the nights w'en I went courtin', an' your aunt Lizy slyed along behind the bushes."
"Poor Aunt Lizy!"
" 'Twarn't no sign you was goin' to be throwed over 'cause Uncle Jed throwed her. She suspicioned the hull fambly. She hindered us consider'ble. But she didn't hinder the summer evenin's, an' the smell o' the grass that was down, an' the little bird a-stirrin' in the nest an' sort o' complainin' on us. She didn't hinder that wind that come blowin' out o' the dark, full o' sweetness, an' blowed away into nowhere, an' made us feel as though it come from the land o' pure delight in the hymn—su'thin' about that dark nowhere that was what you may call a sweet trouble—made you feel sort o' glad, an' sorry too."
Mrs. Somers sighed. " 'Twas pleasant," she said. "Seems as ef sech times had orter last. They go so quick we don't half sense 'em. But there—we're pretty happy as we be."
"Be'n happier ef Bud hadn't been a boy."