Well, when Tom got away he did not get any better. He went down faster. At last his health broke down. He thought of home as he walked around hardly able to stand up. But the deacon would not ask him back, nor would he encourage him even by a kind look to ask to be taken back again. The deacon's wife tried to persuade him. She cried. But the deacon said he must not break his word. His wife told him that a rash word ought to be broken where it did others harm. The deacon's wife grew sick, and the vile, vinegar-tongued, vixenish virago said that the deacon was an old brute. The tattling, tiresome-tongued, town tale-bearer talked about a good many things that she might say, if she wanted to, and she did say that the deacon and his wife did not get on like angels. But the wee, wiry, weird Widow Wiggins watched wearily by the bedside of the sick Mrs. Pettibone. And still Deacon Pettibone refused to break his word, though he was breaking his wife's heart, and breaking God's command, and ruining his son.
At last the sick mother, longing for her son, thought of a plan by which to bring her husband to reason.
"Fetch your cat over the next time you come," she said to the wee, wiry, widow woman.
And so when the wee, weird Widow Wiggins came again, the wonderful cat followed her and lay down by the stove. Soon after the deacon came in, looking very sad but very stern.
"Did you see Tom?" asked his wife.
"No, I didn't," said the deacon, "and I don't want to."
"Mew!" said the cat.
The deacon noticed the cat, and got a little red in the face; but he went on talking.
"I tell you what, wife, Tom has made his bed and he must lie on it, that's all!"
"Mew! mew! mew!"