e mountain o' the rest,'
an' so I give up the idea. I had bother enough with tryin' to see where I
'd put him, fer I certainly would n't consider movin' down to his house
for a minute, 'n' it was a question 's to a stove in father's room or
givin' him double windows for a weddin' present.

"'N' then, all of a sudden, he come out with wantin' you!

"Well, Mrs. Lathrop, I jumped--I really did. Him so tidy 'n' goin' out
on the porch half a dozen times a day to brush up the seeds under the
bird-cage--'n' wantin' _you_! I couldn't believe my ears at first, 'n'
he talked quite a while, 'n' I did n't hear a word he said. 'N' then,
when I did find my tongue, I jus' sat right down 'n' did my duty by him.
Mrs. Lathrop, you know 's well 's I do how fond I am o' you; but you
know, too, 's well 's I do 't no woman 's calls herself a Christian c'd
sit silent an' let a man keep on supposin' 't he c'd be happy with you.
I talked kind, but I took no fish-bones out 'o the truth. I give him
jus' my own observation, 'n' no more. I told him 't it was n't in me to
try to fool even a deacon; an' so when I said frank and free 't even
your very cats soon give up washin' their faces, he c'd depend upon its
bein' so. I says to him, I says: 'Deacon White, there's lots o' worse
things 'n bein' unmarried, 'n' if you marry Mrs. Lathrop you 'll learn
every last one of 'em. Your first wife was deaf,' I says, ''n' Mrs.
Lathrop c'n hear. She 's a very good hearer, too,' I says (for you know
's I'd never be one to run you down, Mrs. Lathrop); 'but anythin' 's is
more of a' effort than listenin' never gets done in her house. You 're
tidy in your ways, Deacon White,' I says; 'any one as's ever passed when
you was hangin' out your dish-towels 'd swear to that; an' such bein'
the case, how c'd you ever be happy with them 's spreads their wash on
the currant-bushes or lets it blow to the dogs?' Maybe I was a little
hard on him, but I felt 's it was then or never, 'n' I tried my best to
save him. It ain't in nature for them 's goes unhooked to ever realize
what their unhookedness is to them 's hooks, an' so it 'd be hopeless to
try to let you see why my sympathies was so with the deacon; but, to
make a long tale short, he jus' hung on like grim death, 'n' in the end
I had to give up. He said I was your friend, an' he wanted 's I sh'd
explain everythin' to you; an' to-morrow, when he gets back from
Meadville, he 'll come up an' get his answer. He did n't ask 'f