a little anxiously.
"I am always well. Never better."
"How old are you, Mother Bartlett?"
"Seventy-three years, child."
"Well, I do think you oughtn't to be here alone. It don't seem right, and I don't think it is right."
"What's to do, child? There ain't nary one to come and live with me. They're all gone but Joe. My Lord knows I'm an old woman seventy-three years of age."
"What then, Mother Bartlett?" Diana asked curiously.
"He'll take care of me, my dear."
"But then, we ought to take care of ourselves," said Diana. "Now if Joe would marry somebody"—
"Joe ain't lucky in that line," said the old lady laughing again. "And may be what he might like, I mightn't. Before you go to wishin' for changes, you'd better know what they'll be. I'm content child. There ain't a thing on earth I want that I haven't got. Now what's the news?"
Diana began and told her the whole story of the sewing meeting and the accident and the nursing of the injured girl. Mrs. Bartlett had an intense interest in every particular; and what Diana failed to remember, her questions brought out.
"And how do you like the new minister?"
"Haven't you seen him yet?"
"Nay. He hain't been down my way yet. In good time he will. He's had sick folks to see arter, Joe told me; old Jemmy Claflin, and Joe Simmons' boy; and Mis' Atwood, and Eliza."
"I think you'll like him," said Diana slowly. "He's not like any minister ever I saw."
"What's the odds?"
"It isn't so easy to tell. He don't look like a minister, for one thing; nor he don't talk like one; not a bit."
"Have we got a gay parson, then?" said the old lady, slightly raising her eyebrows.
"Gay? O no! not in the way you mean. In one way he is gay; he is very pleasant; not stiff or grum, like Mr. Hardenburgh; and he is amusing too, in a quiet way, but he is amusing; he is so cool and so quick. O no, he's not gay in the way you mean. I guess he's good."
"Do you like him?" Mrs. Bartlett asked.
"Yes," said Diana, thinking of the night of Eliza Delamater's accident.
"He is very queer."
"I don't seem to make him out by your telling, child. I'll have to wait, I guess. I've got no sort of an idea of him, so far. Now, dear, if you'll set the table—dinner's ready; and then we'll have some reading."
Diana drew out a small deal table to the middle of the floor, and set on it the delf plates and cups and saucers, the little saltcellar of the same ware, and the knives and forks that were never near Sheffield; in fact, were never steel. But the lettuce came out of the well crisp and fresh and cool; and Mrs. Bartlett's pot-pie crust came out of the pot as spongy and light as possible; and the loaf of "seconds" bread was sweet as it is hard for bread to be that is not made near the mill; and if you and I had been there, I promise you we would not have minded the knives and forks, or the cups either. Mrs. Bartlett's tea was not of corresponding quality, for it came from a country store. However, the cream went far to mend even that. The back door was open for the heat; and the hill-side could be seen through the doorway and part of the soft green meadow slope; and the grasshopper's song and the bell tinkle were not bad music.
"And who was that came with you, dear?" Mrs. Bartlett asked as they sat at table.
"With me? Did you see me come?"
"Surely. I was in the garden. What should hinder me? Who was it druv you, dear?"
"It was an accident. Young Mr. Knowlton had got into some trouble with his horse, riding out our way, and came to ask how he could get home. So I brought him."
"That's Evan Knowlton! him they are making a soldier of?"
"He's made. He's done with his education. He is at home now."
"Ain't goin' to be a soldier after all?"
"O yes; he is a soldier; but he has got a leave, to be home for awhile."
"Well, what sort is he? I don't see what they wanted to make a soldier of him for; his grand'ther would ha' been the better o' his help on the farm, seems to me; and now he'll be off to the ends o' the earth, and doin' nobody knows what. It's the wisdom o' this world. But how has he turned out, Die?"
"I don't know; well, I should think."
"And his sisters at home would ha' been the better of him. By-and-by Mr. Bowdoin will die; and then who'll look after the farm, or the girls?"
"Still, mother, it's something more and something better to be educated, as he is, and to know the world and all sorts of things, as he does, than just to live on the farm here in the mountains, and raise corn and eat it, and nothing else. Isn't it?"
"Why should it be better, child?"
"It is nice to be educated," said Diana softly. And she thought much more than she said.
"A man can get as much edication as he can hold, and live on a farm too. I've seen sich. Some folks can't do no better than hoe—corn like my Joe. But there ain't no necessity for that. But arter all, what does folks live for, Diana?"
"I never could make out, Mother Bartlett."
The old lady looked at her thoughtfully and wistfully, but said no more. Diana cleared the table and washed the few dishes; and when all was straight again, took out a newspaper she had brought from home, and she and the old lady settled themselves for an afternoon of enjoyment. For it was that to both parties. At home Diana cared little about the paper; here it was quite another thing. Mrs. Bartlett wanted to hear all there was in it; public doings, foreign doings, city news, editor's gossip; and even the advertisements came in for their share of pleasure-giving. New inventions had an interest; tokens of the world's movements, or the world's wants, in other notices, were found suggestive of thought or provocative of wonder. Sitting with her feet put towards the fire, her knitting in her hands, the quick grey eyes studied Diana's face as she read, never needing to give their supervision to the fingers; and the coarse blue yarn stocking, which was doubtless destined for Joe, grew visibly in length while the eyes and thoughts of the knitter were busy elsewhere. The newspaper filled a good part of the afternoon; for the reading was often interrupted for talk which grew out of it. When at last it was done, and Mrs. Bartlett's eyes returned to the fire, there were a few minutes of stillness; then she said gently,
"Now, our other reading, dear?"
"You like this the best, Mother Bartlett, don't you?" said Diana, as she rose and brought from the inner room a large volume; the Book, as any one might know at a glance; carefully covered with a sewn cover of coarse cloth. "Where shall I read now?"
The place indicated was the beginning of the Revelation, a favourite book with the old lady. And as she listened, the knitting grew slower; though, true to the instinctive habit of doing something, the fingers never ceased absolutely their work. But they moved slowly; and the old lady's eyes, no longer on
