“The poison works quickly.”
The apples were pared, cored, quartered, or sliced, and, threaded upon twine, hung in festoons upon a frame erected for the purpose on the south side of the house; the cores and skins and smaller apples were heaped into the cider-press, which on the morrow would begin its work of reducing them to the cheerful and wholesome beverage as essential to our forefathers’ comfort as tea and coffee are to ours; the bountiful supper had been eaten and merrily cleared away by a committee of bustling matrons, and at last the great houseplace, the shed, and a platform extending for some distance from the house were “sided off” and swept, to make room for the frolics which to the young people were the true meaning of the whole affair. “Kissing games” were in that day not more objectionable than round dances are now, and perhaps that visitor from Jupiter to whom we sometimes refer for impartial judgment would have found them less so. Both classes of amusement depend very much upon who indulges in them, and when Gillian’s soft warm lips frankly pressed William Pabodie’s mouth a quick flush mounted to the young man’s temples, and he cast a startled glance into the dark eyes upraised to his with a look of fathomless meaning. Lucretia Brewster saw that look, and her own matronly cheek colored angrily. Later in the evening she sat herself down beside her sister-in-law, with whom she was on very affectionate terms.
“Tired, ’Cretia?” asked Mistress Love Brewster with a pleasant smile.
“No, not to say tired, Sally, but a good deal worked up.”
“About what?”
“Well, one thing and another. You know my Mary’s to be married Thanksgiving Day, and John Turner joins hands with her in begging me to go to Scituate along with them and set her off in her housekeeping. You know, being the only girl, she never’s quite let go of mammy’s apron string; and for that matter, I’m as loath to part with her as ever she can be with me.”
“Then, why not go?” asked Sarah sympathetically. “I’m sure the change will be good for you, and you’ve had a mort of work and worry lately.”
“Yes, I know, but—well, I’ll tell you, Sally. I don’t want to go away and leave Jonathan and the boys with nobody to do for them.”
“Why, there’s Jill and your Indian woman Quoy.”
“Yes, Quoy knows all about the house, and can get the meals and all that as well if I was away as if I was here; but Gillian”—