The brick cottage on the hilltop had grown only a little
shabbier. Deacon Foxwell Baxter still slammed its door behind him
every morning at seven o'clock and, without any such cheerful
conventions as good-byes to his girls, walked down to the bridge
to open his store.

The day, properly speaking, had opened when Waitstill and
Patience had left their beds at dawn, built the fire, fed the
hens and turkeys, and prepared the breakfast, while the Deacon
was graining the horse and milking the cows. Such minor "chores"
as carrying water from the well, splitting kindling, chopping
pine, or bringing wood into the kitchen, were left to Waitstill,
who had a strong back, or, if she had not, had never been unwise
enough to mention the fact in her father's presence. The almanac
day, however, which opened with sunrise, had nothing to do with
the real human day, which always began when Mr. Baxter slammed
the door behind him, and reached its high noon of delight when he
disappeared from view.

"He's opening the store shutters!" chanted Patience from the
heights of a kitchen chair by the window. "Now he's taken his
cane and beaten off the Boynton puppy that was sitting on the
steps as usual,--I don't mean Ivory's dog" (here the girl gave a
quick glance at her sister)," but Rodman's little yellow cur.
Rodman must have come down to the bridge on some errand for
Ivory. Isn't it odd, when that dog has all the other store steps
to sit upon, he should choose father's, when every bone in his
body must tell him how father hates him and the whole Boynton
family."