"_I_ don't," cried Mrs. Crankett, giving the dasher a vicious push,
which sent the cream flying frantically up to the top of the churn; "I
hope he'll turn out bad, an' her pride'll be tuk down ez--"

The deacon had been long enough at sea to know the signs of a long
storm, and to know that prudence suggested a prompt sailing out of the
course of such a storm, when possible; so he started for the door,
carrying the glass and ax-helve with him. Suddenly the door opened, and
a female figure ran so violently against the ax-helve, that the said
figure was instantly tumbled to the floor, and seemed an irregular mass
of faded pink calico, and subdued plaid shawl.

"Miss Peekin!" exclaimed Mrs. Crankett, dropping the churn-dasher and
opening her eyes.

"Like to ha' not been," whined the figure, slowly arising and giving the
offending ax-helve a glance which would have set it on fire had it not
been of green hickory; "but--_hev_ you heerd?"

"What?" asked Mrs. Crankett, hastily setting a chair for the newcomer,
while Ephr'm, deacon and sixty though he was, paused in his almost
completed exit.

"_He's_ gone!" exclaimed Miss Peekin.

"Oh, I heerd Jim hed gone to Califor--"

"Pshaw!" said Miss Peekin, contemptuously; "that was days ago! I mean
Brown--the New York chap--Millie Botayne's lover!"