"You're not making a very wise choice, Nancy," and the minister's wife
smiled as she spoke. "The infant class of the Sunday-school sits there,
you know, and I expect the paint has had extra wear and tear. Families
don't seem to occupy those pews regularly nowadays."

"I can remember when every seat in the whole church was filled, wings an'
all," mused Mrs. Sargent, wringing out her wascloth in a reminiscent
mood. "The one in front o' you, Nancy, was always called the 'deef pew'
in the old times, and all the folks that was hard o' hearin' used to
congregate there."

"The next pew hasn't been occupied since I came here," said the
minister's wife.

"No," answered Mrs. Sargent, glad of any opportunity to retail
neighbourhood news. "'Squire Bean's folks have moved to Portland to be
with the married daughter. Somebody has to stay with her, and her
husband won't. The 'Squire ain't a strong man, and he's most too old to
go to meetin' now. The youngest son has just died in New York, so I
hear."

"What ailed him?" inquired Maria Sharp.

"I guess he was completely wore out takin' care of his health," returned
Mrs. Sargent. "He had a splendid constitution from a boy, but he was
always afraid it wouldn't last him.--The seat back o' 'Squire Bean's is
the old Peabody pew--ain't that the Peabody pew you're scrubbin', Nancy?"

"I believe so," Nancy answered, never pausing in her labours. "It's so
long since anybody sat there, it's hard to remember."