came not to a
woman's tongue had no abiding in her mind.

His wife, if she were more subtle, gave no evidence of it. "I think
the best plan would be for her to go away again," she added.

The Squire looked at her wistfully. "Do you think it would, Abigail?"

"I think she would brighten right up, the way she did before."

"She did brighten up, didn't she?" said the Squire, with a sigh.
"Well, maybe you're right, Abigail, but you've got to go with her
this time. The child isn't going away, looking as she does now,
without her mother."

So it happened that, a week or two later, Jerome, going to his work,
met the coach again, and this time had a glimpse of Abigail Merritt's
little, sharply alert face beside her daughter's pale, flower-like
droop of profile. He had not been in the shop long before his uncle's
wife came with the news. She stood in the doorway, quite filling it
with her voluminosity of skirts and softly palpitating bulk, holding
a little fluttering shawl together under her chin.

"They've gone out West, to Ohio, to Mis' Merritt's cousin, Mary Jane
Anstey, that was; she married rich, years ago, and went out there to
live, and Abigail 'ain't seen her since. She's been teasin' her to
come for years; her own folks are all dead an' gone, an' her husband
is poorly, an' she can't leave him to come here. Camilla, she paid
the expenses of one of 'em out there. Lucina's been real miserable
lately, an' they're worried about her. The Squire's sister, that she
was named for, went down in a decline in six months; so her mother
has taken her out there for a change, an' they're goin' to make a
long visit. Lucina is real poorly. I had it from 'Lizy Wells. Camilla
told her."

Jerome shifted his back towards his aunt as he sat on his bench. His
face, bent over his work, was white and rigid.

"You're coldin' of the shop off, Belindy," said Ozias.

"Well, I s'pose I be," said she, with a pleasant titter of apology,
and backed off the threshold and shut the door.

"That's a woman," said Ozias, "who 'ain't got any affairs of her own,
but she's perfectly contented an' happy with her neighbors', taken
weak. That's the kind of woman to marry if you ain't got anythin' to
give her--no money, no interests in life, no anythin'."

Jerome made no reply. His uncle gave a shrewd glance at him. "When ye
can't eat lollypops, it's jest as well not to have them under your
nose," he remarked, with seemingly no connection, but Jerome sa