Mrs. Bloodgood now saw that the harmony of her party was like to be destroyed, for the Widow Andrews was beginning to fan herself, and breathe short; so like a skilful commander, she brought all her forces to bear, in order to turn the attitude of affairs.
'Now, Aunt Peggy!' addressing the fat woman, 'do, la—I wouldn't talk so. Folks say a great many things they don't know any thing about. 'William is a brave boy; and if he's got ahead in the world, I'm glad on it; but who he will marry, or when he will marry, I guess there ain't any body that knows. Don't you say so, Mrs. Andrews? But, do, la! Here I've been a talking, and your tea is clean out; let me give you another cup; and, Aunt Peggy, won't you hand round that plate of cake? and won't you all help yourselves? and them baked pears, they are fresh and nice; I did them up this very morning—but may be some of you would like the preserves? Sally Cutter, you just hand the Widow Andrews that saucer of preserves.'
The tea, and the cake, and the preserves, now demanded general and particular notice; and between eating and drinking, and praising the good things, and asking for receipts, a very delightful state of confusion and loud talking about all manner of things, showed how successful was Aunt Sally's effort to maintain the peace.
Nor was Aunt Sally Bloodgood's the only tea-circle that was disturbed by this unaccountable affair. It was a great marvel, and the poor builder actually lost the good-will of more than one of the tea-drinking old ladies; but he did not seem to mind it, for he went on in a quiet way to finish the thing. And when he had done that, he locked the door, put the key in his pocket, shut the little gate, and went to work at another job.
CHAPTER XIV.
Mary Oakum was in personal appearance a lovely young creature, and an equally lovely spirit breathed forth in every word, sparkled from every look, and shone forth embodied in her whole conduct. She had the same black hair, the same flashing, deep-set hazel eye, the same laughing mouth—she was a beautiful miniature of Sam, only replacing his nut-brown complexion with a pure red and white. Mary was now seventeen, not tall of her age, but gracefully formed, and very feminine.
Susan, the youngest sister, was in a different style; for her hair was light, and her eyes blue, and her complexion, though fair, without color. Although two years younger, she was nearly as tall as her sister, with a serious cast of countenance that made her appear at times of an equal age.
The parents and children still occupied the little house on the shore; it was a very small, poor building, but they had kept patching it up the best they could; and being very happy among themselves, they thought not of its imperfections with any feelings of repining or discontent.
Sam was the delight of them all; parents and sisters hung upon him with an ardor of attachment, looked up to him with a feeling of dependence, confidence, and joy, which made him ever the light of their humble home when present with them, and drew their hearts after him with almost painful interest when absent.