"She's a heathen and wicked woman," Mopsey said, shuffling at the door, and turning back on her way to the kitchen—"your poor boy was lying low of a fever and how could she expect it."
"In one point of view she may come; her husband was living then," continued Mrs. Jane Peabody, "she has become a rich woman since, and may honor us with a visit—to show us how great a person she has got to be—let her come—it need'nt trouble thee, nor me, I'm sure." Mrs. Jane Peabody smoothed her Quaker vandyke, and sat stiffly in her easy chair.
Old Sylvester entering at that moment, laid aside his staff and broad-brimmed hat, which little Sam Peabody ran in to take charge of, and took his seat at the head of the table; the Captain, who was busy at the back-door scouring an old rusty fowling-piece for some enterprise he had in view in the morning, was called in by his little wife; the others were seated in their places about the board.
"Where's William?" old Sylvester asked.
He was at a window in the front room, where he had sat for several hours, with spectacles on his brow, poring over an old faded parchment deed, which related to some neighboring land he thought belonged to the Peabodys, (although in possession of others,) and which he had always made a close study of on his visits to the homestead. There was a dark passage, under which he made their title, which had been submitted to various men learned in the law; it was too dark and doubtful, in their opinion, to build a contest on, and yet William Peabody gave it every year a new examination, with the hope, perhaps, that the wisdom of advancing age might enable him to fathom and expound it, although it had been drawn up by the greatest lawyer of his day in all that country. His wife Hannah, grieving in spirit that her husband should be toiling forever in the quest of gain, sat near him, pale, calm and disheartened, but speaking not a word. He could not look at her with that fearful green shade on her face, but kept his eyes always fixed on the old parchment. When his aged father had taken his seat, and began his thanks to God for the bounties before them, as though the old Patriarch had brought a better spirit from the calm day without, he thrust the paper into his bosom and glided to his place at the table. It would have done you good to hear that old man's prayer. He neither solicited forgiveness for his enemies nor favors for his friends; for schools, churches, presidents or governments; neither for health, wealth, worldly welfare, nor for any single other thing; all he said, bowing his white old head, was this:
"May we all be Christian people the day we die—God bless us."
That was all; and his kinsfolk lost no appetite in listening to it—for it was no sooner uttered than they all fell to—and not a word more was spoken for five minutes at least, nor then perhaps, had not little Sam Peabody cried out, with breathless animation, and delight of feature,
"The pigeons, grandfather!" at the same time pointing from the door to the evening sky, along which they were winging their calm and silent flight in a countless train—streaming on westward as though there was no end to them; which put old Sylvester upon recalling the cheerful sports of his younger days.
"I have taken a couple of hundred in a net on the Hill before breakfast, many a time," he said. "You used to help me, William."
"Yes, I and old Ethan Barbary," said the merchant, "used to spring the net; you gave the word."