Mrs. Salsify sits in her parlor making caps for her thumb, at least we should judge so, from their surprisingly small dimensions; and Mary Madeline is nowhere to be seen. But Dilly Danforth is in the kitchen bending over a great wash-tub, pale and sunken-eyed as ever. Now that we look at this woman attentively, it strikes us she is wonderfully like that lank-visaged man, who dwells in the lonely forest hut, the "Hermit of the Cedars," as he is called. But then it may be only the resemblance which all the sons and daughters of affliction have in common. 'Tis not likely 'tis more than that. And gazing on Willie, who stands over the great arches, replenishing the fires, and at intervals poking the white heaps of linen beneath the fierce bubbling suds with a long wooden shovel, we fancy for a moment there's something about him like Edgar Lindenwood. Of course, he is not so large or so well-dressed; nevertheless, he is greatly improved since we last saw him; and there is something in the turn of the head, which is certainly finely shaped, though placed on the shoulders of a beggar boy; and something in the set of the rusty cloth cap over the bright, sunny curls, that reminds us of the tall, graceful lad we used to see winding his way over the hills to the large, white seminary. But then, a great many boys have pretty-formed heads, and bright, curly hair; and, should we attempt, no doubt we could find a large number with more points of resemblance than we have been able to make out between Edgar Lindenwood and Willie Danforth. We are full of conceits. Sometimes Edith Malcome is like Florence Howard, and Rufus' glistening, coal-black hair reminds us of Hannah Doliver, while the handsome colonel has a look we cannot fathom, and from which we turn with a creeping shudder.
'Tis quite astonishing what strange fancies possess people at times.
While we have been indulging in ours, Mrs. Mumbles has put away those impossible caps, and come into the kitchen to see how matters and things are progressing, and just as she begins to tell Aunt Dilly, that she "wants her to get through washing in time to scour down the pantry shelves and scrub the oil-cloth on the dining-room floor," in runs Miss Susan Pimble, and says, "Mamma wants Mrs. Danforth to come and do a little light work for her, to-morrow; for she has got to go to Goslin Flats to attend a great mass convention, and can't stop to do it herself. She will pay Aunt Dilly well, if she will oblige her. Garrison has been sick—Peggy Nonce is away on a visit to her son, who has recently been married, and mamma's public duties and household affairs have proved too heavy for her shoulders," etc., etc.
Susy ran through a long rigmarole, with a volubility worthy the daughter of a fluent public speaker.
We hasten away lest our mania for discovering resemblances should detect one between Mrs. Salsify Mumbles and pert Susy Pimble.
CHAPTER XIX.
"Ay, little do those features wear
The shade of sin,—the soil of care;
The hair is parted o'er a brow
Open and white as mountain-snow,