But Marie was not to be turned aside. It was well known, she said,
that angels could not come to earth undisguised in these days. It had
something to do with the Jews, she did not know exactly what. Mere
Jeanne had told her, but she forgot just how it was. But as to their
not coming at all, that would be out of the question, for how would the
good God know what was going on down here, or know who was behaving
well and meriting a crown of glory, and who should go down into the
pit? Did not Abby see that?

Abby privately thought that here was strange heathen talk to be going
on in her kitchen; but she said nothing, only gave her guest more jam,
and said she was eating nothing,--the proper formula for a good
hostess, no matter how much the guest may have devoured.

It was true, as has been said before, that Abby Rock was not fair to
outward view. Nature had been in a crabbed mood when she fashioned
this gaunt, angular form, these gnarled, unlovely features. An
uncharitable neighbour, in describing Abby, once said that she looked
as if she had swallowed an old cedar fence-rail and shrunk to it; and
the description was apt enough so far as the body went. Her skin,
eyes, and hair were of different shades (yet not so very different) of
greyish brown; her nose was long and knotty, her mouth and chin
apparently taken at random from a box of misfits. Yes, the cedar
fence-rail came as near to it as anything could. Yet somehow, no one
who had seen the light of kindness in those faded eyes, and heard the
sweet, cordial tones of that quiet voice, thought much about their
owner's looks. People said it was a pity Abby wasn't better favoured,
and then they thought no more about it, but were simply thankful that
she existed.