monument of the
Divine wrath for the sin of disobedience."

"What! Mrs. Happy Lot? Do you call her a monument of wrath? Well, well,
if that don't beat all, Minister. If you had a been a-tyin' of the
night-cap last night I shouldn't a wondered at your talkin' at that
pace. But to call that dear little woman, Mrs. Happy Lot, that dancin',
laughin' tormentin', little critter, a monument of wrath, beats all to
immortal smash."

"Why who are you a-talkin' of, Sam?"

"Why, Mrs. Happy Lot, the wife of the Honourable Cranbery Lot, of
Umbagog, to be sure. Who did you think I was a-talkin' of?"

"Well, I thought you was a-talkin' of--of--ahem--of subjects too serious
to be talked of in that manner; but I did you wrong, Sam; I did you
injustice. Give me your hand, my boy. It's better for me to mistake and
apologize, than for you to sin and repent. I don't think I ever heard of
Mr. Lot, of Umbagog, or of his wife either. Sit down here, and tell me
the story, for 'with thee conversing, I forget all time.'"

"Well, Minister," said Mr. Slick, "I'll tell you the ins and outs of it;
and a droll story it is too. Miss Lot was the darter of Enoch Mosher,
the rich miser of Goshen; as beautiful a little critter too, as ever
slept in shoe-leather. She looked for all the world like one of the
Paris fashion prints, for she was a parfect pictur', that's a fact.
Her complexion was made of white and red roses, mixed so beautiful, you
couldn't tell where the white eended, or the red begun, natur' had
used the blendin' brush so delicate. Her eyes were screw augurs, I tell
_you_; they bored right into your heart, and kinder agitated you, and
made your breath come and go, and your pulse flutter. I never felt
nothin' like 'em. When lit up, they sparkled like lamp reflectors; and
at other tunes, they was as soft, and mild, and clear as dew-drops that
hang on the bushes at sun-rise. When she loved, she loved; and when she
hated, she hated about the wickedest you ever see. Her lips were like
heart cherries of the carnation kind; so plump, and fall, and hard, you
felt as if you could fall to and eat 'em right up. Her voice was like a
grand piany, all sorts o' power in it; canary-birds' notes at one eend,
and thunder at t'other, accordin' to the humour she was in, for she
was a'most a grand bit of stuff was Happy, she'd put an edge on a knife
a'most. She was a rael steel. Her figur' was as light as a fairy's, and
her waist was so taper and tiny, it see