er, an' the kissin' about to begin, when I
heerd the house-door bu'st open, suddent. I felt my heart give one jump
right up to the root o' my tongue, an' then fall back ag'in, sick an'
dead-like.

"The parlor-door flew open right away, an' in come Rachel without a
bunnet, an' her hair all frowzed by the wind. She was as white as a
sheet, an' her eyes like two burnin' coals. She walked straight through
'em all an' stood right afore me. They was all so taken aback that they
never thought o' stoppin' her. Then she kind o' screeched out,--'Eber
Nicholson, what are you doin'?' Her voice was strange an'
onnatural-like, an' I'd never 'a' knowed it to be hern, if I hadn't 'a'
seen her. I couldn't take my eyes off of her, an' I couldn't speak: I
jist stood there. Then she said ag'in,--'Eber Nicholson, what are you
doin'? You are married to me, in the sight of God. You belong to me an'
I to you, forever an' forever!' Then they begun cryin' out,--'Go 'way!'
'Take her away!' 'What d's she mean?' an' old Mr. Larrabee ketched holt
of her arm. She begun to jerk an' trimble all over; she drawed in her
breath in a sort o' groanin' way, awful to hear, an' then dropped down
on the floor in a fit. I bu'st out in a terrible spell o' cryin';--I
couldn't 'a' helped it, to save my life."

The man paused, drew his sleeve across his eyes, and then timidly looked
at me. Seeing nothing in my face, doubtless, but an expression of the
profoundest commiseration, he remarked, with a more assured voice, as if
in self-justification,--

"It was a pretty hard thing for a man to go through with, now, wasn't
it?"

"You may well say that," said I. "Your story is not yet finished,
however. This Rachel Emmons,--you say she is still living,--in what way
does she cause the disturbances?"

"I'll tell you all I know about it," said he,--"an' if you understand
it _then_, you're wiser 'n I am. After they carried her home, she had a
long spell o' sickness,--come near dyin', they said; but they brought
her through, at last, an' she got about ag'in, lookin' ten year older.
I kep' out of her sight, though. I lived awhile at Old Jones's, till I
could find a good farm to rent, or a cheap un to buy. I wanted to git
out o' the neighborhood: I was oneasy all the time, bein' so near
Rachel. Her mother was wuss, an' her father failin'-like, too. Mother
seen 'em often: she was as good a neighbor to 'em as she dared be. Well,
I got sort o' tired, an' went out to Michigan a