folks."

"But"--Samuel recovered his authoritative manner--"the place fer an old
man ain't with old hens. Naow, Abe, ef yew think yew kin behave yerself
an' not climb the flagpole or jump over the roof, I want yer to stay
right here, yew an' Angy both, an' spend yer week out. Yes, yes," as Abe
would have thanked him. "I take it," plunging his hand into his pocket,
"yew ain't stowed away nothin' since that mince-pie; but I can't offer
yer nothin' to eat till Blossy gits back an' opens up the house, 'cept
these here pepp'mints. They're fine; try 'em."

With one of those freakish turns of the weather that takes the conceit
out of all weather-prophets, the snow had now ceased to fall, the sun
was struggling out of the clouds, and the wind was swinging around to
the west.

Neither of the old men could longer fret about their wives being caught
in a heavy snow; but, nevertheless, their anxiety concerning the
whereabouts of the women did not cease, and the homesickness which Abe
felt for Angy, and Samuel for Blossy, rather increased than diminished
as one sat on the roll of canvas and the other crouched on his stool,
and both hugged the fire, and both felt very old, and very lame, and
very tired and sore.

Toward noontime they heard the welcome sound of wheels, and on rushing
to the door saw Ezra driving alone to the barn. He did not note their
appearance in the doorway of the shop; but they could see from the look
on his face that nothing had gone amiss.

Samuel heard the shutting of the kitchen door, and knew that Blossy was