sky, and she murmured, "The mother of a prophet, the mother of a
prophet!"

On the other side of the road a few acres of ground were lying under
disorderly cultivation. In one patch the stalks of sweet maize had been
fastened together in high stooks, disclosing the pumpkin vines, which
beneath them had plentifully borne their huge fruit, green as yet. At
the back of this cultivated portion an old man, the elder Joseph Smith,
was digging potatoes; his torn shirt fluttered like the dress of a
scarecrow. Behind him and all around was the green wood, close-growing
bushes hedging in the short trees of a second growth which covered a
long low hill. Above the hill ominous clouds like smoking censers were
being rolled up from the east; the waving beards of the corn stooks
rustled and streamed in wind which was growing colder. Susannah's dress
and bonnet were roughly blown, and the clothes on the line flapped again
around the tall figure of the witch in the doorway.

Susannah contradicted again with the scornful superiority of youth. "I
don't believe that your son is a prophet."

Lucy Smith, having the sensitive receptive power of an hysteric, was
sobered now by the determination of Susannah's aspect. She looked almost
repentant for a moment, and then said humbly, "If you'll come in and see
Emmar--Joseph and Emmar have come home--Emmar will tell you the same."

A gray vaporous tint was being spread over the heavens, folding this
portion of earth in its shadow and darkening the interior of the cabin
which Susannah entered.

Upon a decent bedstead reclined a young woman. Everything near her was