As homes went in those early days, when Illinois was only a territory, and in that sparsely settled locality, it was a most roomy and comfortable abode. The childless couple which dwelt in it were comfortable also, although to hear their daily converse with one another a stranger would not so have fancied. They had early come into the wilderness, and had, therefore, lived much alone. Yet each was of a most social nature, and the result, as their few neighbors said, of their isolated situation was merely “a case of out-talk.”
When Mercy’s tongue was not wagging, Abel’s was, and often both were engaged at the same moment. Her speech was sharp and decisive; his indolent, and, to one of her temperament, exceedingly aggravating. But, between them, they managed to keep up almost a continuous discourse. For, if Abel went afield, Mercy was sure to follow him upon various excuses; unless the weather were too stormy, when, of course, he was within doors.
However, there were times when even their speech lagged a little, and then homesickness seized the mistress of the cabin; and after several days of preparation she would set out on foot or on horseback, according to the distance to be traversed, for some other settler’s cabin and a wider exchange of ideas.
On a late November day, when the homesickness had become overpowering, Mercy tied on her quilted hood and pinned her heavy shawl about her. She had filled a carpet bag with corn to pop and nuts to crack, for the children of her expected hostess and had “set up” a fresh pair of long stockings to knit for Abel. She now called him from the stable into the living room to hear her last remarks.
“If I should be kep’ over night, Abel, you’ll find a plenty to eat. There’s a big pot of baked beans in the lean-to, and some apple pies, and a pumpkin one. The ham’s all sliced ready to fry, and I do hope to goodness you won’t spill grease ’bout on this rag carpet. I’m the only woman anywhere ’s round has a rag carpet all over her floor, any way, and the idee of your sp’ilin’ it just makes me sick. I——”
“But I hain’t sp’iled it yet, ma. You hain’t give me no chance. If you do—”
“If I do! Ain’t I leavin’ you to get your own breakfast, in case I don’t come back? It might rain or snow, ary one, an’ then where’d I be?”
“Right where you happened to be at, I s’pose,” returned Abel, facetiously.
But it was wasted wit. The idea of being storm-stayed now filled the housewife’s mind. She was capable, and full of New England gumption; but her husband “was a born botch.” True, he could split a log, or clear a woodland with the best; and as for a ploughman, his richly fertile corn bottom and regular eastern-sort-of-garden testified to his ability. But she was leaving him with the possibility of woman’s work to do; and as she reflected upon the condition of her cupboard when she should return and the amount of cream he would probably spill, should he attempt to skim it for the churning, her mind misgave her and she began slowly to untie the great hood.