Aunt Lois set her lips firmly, and wound with grim resolve. She was the very impersonation of that obstinate rationalism that grew up at the New-England fireside, close alongside of the most undoubting faith in the supernatural.
“I don't believe such things,” at last she snapped out, “and I don't disbelieve them. I just let 'em alone. What do I know about 'em? Ruth tells me a story; and I believe her. I know what she saw beforehand, came true in a most remarkable way. Well, I'm sure I've no objection. One thing may be true, or another, for all me; but, just because I believe Ruth Sullivan, I'm not going to believe, right and left, all the stories in Cotton Mather, and all that anybody can hawk up to tell. Not I.” This whole conversation made me all the more curious to get at the story thus dimly indicated; and so we beset Sam for information.
“So your Aunt Lois wouldn't tell ye nothin',” said Sam. “Wanter know, neow! sho!”
“No: she said we must go to bed if we asked her.”
“That 'are's a way folks has; but, ye see, boys,” said Sam, while a droll confidential expression crossed the lack-lustre dolefulness of his visage, “ye see, I put ye up to it, 'cause Miss Lois is so large and commandin' in her ways, and so kind o' up and down in all her doin's, that I like once and a while to sort o' gravel her; and I knowed enough to know that that 'are question would git her in a tight place.
“Ye see, yer Aunt Lois was knowin' to all this 'ere about Ruth, so there wer'n't no gettin' away from it; and it's about as remarkable a providence as any o' them of Mister Cotton Marther's 'Magnilly.' So if you 'll come up in the barn-chamber this arternoon, where I've got a lot o' flax to hatchel out, I 'll tell ye all about it.”
So that afternoon beheld Sam arranged at full length on a pile of top-tow in the barn-chamber, hatchelling by proxy by putting Harry and myself to the service.
“Wal, now, boys, it's kind o' refreshing to see how wal ye take hold,” he observed. “Nothin' like bein' industrious while ye'r young: gret sight better now than loafin off, down in them medders.
“'In books and work and useful play
Let my fust years be past: