and I expected every moment to see him rushing upon me, like an
untamed tiger, to wreak his vengeance upon my head. I was rather
surprised at his non-appearance, and rather disappointed, too; for I
preferred to fight the battle at the barn, or in the yard, instead of in
the house or the store. Though my thoughts were not on my work, I busied
myself in sweeping out the horse's stall, and making his bed for the
night.

"Buck! Buck! Buck!" called Mrs. Fishley, from the back door of the
house.

She always called three times; for she was a little, snappy, snarling
woman, who never spoke pleasantly to any one, except when she had
company, or went to the sewing circle.

"Here, marm!" I replied.

"Come here; I want you!" she added, clear up in the highest tones of her
voice, which sounded very much like the savage notes of an angry wasp.

It was some consolation to know, under the peculiar circumstances, that
she wanted me, instead of "the old man," her lord and master, and that I
was not called to the expected settlement, which, in spite of my fixed
determination, I could not help dreading. Mrs. Fishley wanted me--not
her husband. She was always wanting me; and somehow I never happened to
be in the right place, or to do anything in the right way.

Mrs. Fishley believed she was one of the most amiable, self-denying,
self-sacrificing, benevolent women in the world. Nobody else believed
it. She had to endure more trials, bear more crosses, undergo more
hardships, than any other housekeeper in town. She had to work harder,
to think of more things, stagger under more burdens, than all her female
neighbors put together. If she ever confessed that she was sometimes
just a little cross, she wanted to know who could wonder at it, when she
had so much to do, and so many things to think of. Job could be patient,
for he had not her family to look after. The saints and martyrs could
bow resignedly at the stake in the midst of the flaming fagots; but none
of them had to keep house for a husband and three children, and two of
them not her own.

To make a fair and just division of Mrs. Fishley's cares, one tenth of
them were real, and nine tenths of them were imaginary; and the
imaginary ones were more real to her than the actual ones. They soured
her temper,--or, more properly, her temper soured them,--and she
groaned, complained, snarled, snapped, and fretted, from very early on
Sunday morning to very late on Saturday evening. Nothi