idea of their characters better than any long
description of mine:----

"For crankiness and nearness, and unneighbourly sourness, give me
Josh Strong and his sister Hepsy. They can't be equalled, I bet, in
all Connecticut."

You will be able to judge by-and-by of the correctness of Reuben's
estimate. On a lovely August afternoon Miss Hepzibah Strong was
ironing in the kitchen at Thankful Rest. I wish you could have seen
that kitchen; your eyes would have ached with its painful
cleanliness. The stone flags were as cool and clean as water and
hands could make them; the stove shone like burnished silver; the
dresser and the table, at which Miss Hepzibah was at work, were white
as snow; and the array of tins on the wall was perfectly dazzling
with brightness. The wide diamond-paned casement stood open to admit
what little air happened to be abroad that sultry afternoon. How
pleasant it was, to be sure, to look out upon the flower-laden
garden; upon the sunny orchard, rich and golden with its precious
harvest; upon the silver thread of the river winding through the
green meadow beyond; and to see and feel all the loveliness with
which God had clothed the world. But Miss Hepzibah had no eyes for
any of the beauties I have mentioned; she was intent upon her work,
and hung on the clothes-horse piece after piece of stiff, spotless
linen, which, as she could boast, could not be equalled in the
township. Miss Hepzibah herself was not a pretty picture. She was a
woman of thirty-five or thereabouts; with a thin, brown, hard-looking
face; sharp, twinkling gray eyes; and a long, grim, resolute mouth.
She wore a short skirt of dark material, a lilac calico jacket, and a
huge white apron. On ordinary occasions her head was adorned by a cap
of fearful workmanship and dimensions, but in the heat of her work
she had thrown it off, and her scanty brown hair was fastened tightly
back in a cue behind.

Just as the old eight-day clock in the lobby solemnly struck four,
there was a loud knock at the back door, and the post-messenger from
Pendlepoint strode into the kitchen, holding in his hand a
black-edged letter.

"Bad news for ye, Miss Hepsy, I doubt," he said. "It'll be from your
sister in Newhaven, I reckon."

Miss Hepzibah took the black-edged letter coolly in her hand, eyed it
stolidly for a second, and then laid it on the table. "Sit down a
minute, Ebenezer, an' I'll bring ye a glass of cider," she said.

And Ebenezer saw her