harvest; upon the silver thread of the river winding through the
green meadow beyond; and to see and feel all the loveliness with
which God had clothed the world. But Miss Hepzibah had no eyes for
any of the beauties I have mentioned; she was intent upon her work,
and hung on the clothes-horse piece after piece of stiff, spotless
linen, which, as she could boast, could not be equalled in the
township. Miss Hepzibah herself was not a pretty picture. She was a
woman of thirty-five or thereabouts; with a thin, brown, hard-looking
face; sharp, twinkling gray eyes; and a long, grim, resolute mouth.
She wore a short skirt of dark material, a lilac calico jacket, and a
huge white apron. On ordinary occasions her head was adorned by a cap
of fearful workmanship and dimensions, but in the heat of her work
she had thrown it off, and her scanty brown hair was fastened tightly
back in a cue behind.

Just as the old eight-day clock in the lobby solemnly struck four,
there was a loud knock at the back door, and the post-messenger from
Pendlepoint strode into the kitchen, holding in his hand a
black-edged letter.

"Bad news for ye, Miss Hepsy, I doubt," he said. "It'll be from your
sister in Newhaven, I reckon."

Miss Hepzibah took the black-edged letter coolly in her hand, eyed it
stolidly for a second, and then laid it on the table. "Sit down a
minute, Ebenezer, an' I'll bring ye a glass of cider," she said.

And Ebenezer saw her depart to the larder nothing loath. But if he
thought Miss Hepsy meant to open the letter and confide its contents
to him he was mistaken, for she pushed it aside and went on with her