“So do I,” was the reply of his wife, as she welcomed the visitor.
“Let the mare go, parson; she knows the way to the barn; come, let’s go into the house.”
“I rather think, Edmund, I had better hitch her to this stub; if she goes to the barn alone, she will certainly be in mischief;” but as the minister stepped forward, with the bridle in his hand, to execute his design, Griffin caught him by the shoulders, and exclaiming, “Bless me! where is the man going?” lifted and set him aside, as though he had been a feather; at the same time dropping a stone upon the trencher of a bear trap, the great jaws sprung together with a clang that caused Parson Goodhue to jump clear from the ground in mortal fear.
“Goodness, Edmund, do you set bear-traps for your friends?”
“No, parson; I’m sorry for your fright, but you see, we caught a bear last night, and the boys have been playing with the trap, and left it set. If you had got into it, ‘twould have broken your leg.”
What a contrast between the outside and the inside of the house, where Elizabeth Griffin held undisputed sway! Silver was not brighter than the pewter on the shelves, and white as the snow flake were dressers and the nicely-sanded floor of the best room into which the visitor was ushered, where, seated in his arm-chair, was Joseph Griffin, the grandfather, a vast ruin, the great bones and cords of the old Indian-killer standing out in bold relief through the shrunken flesh.
“Father’s master hard of hearing, and his eyesight has failed him a good deal,” said his son; “but otherways he’s just as bright as he ever was; knows all that’s going on, and all the young folks.”
“Father,” he shouted, as they entered the room, “here’s Mr. Goodhue, come to see you.”
“Glad to see him; give him a cheer.”
“Good morning, Mr. Griffin,” said the minister, placing his chair close to the old gentleman; “you have been spared to a great age.”