Mr. Didymus was an old, old man, and his white-headed wife was bowed and frail. The death of their only daughter, Martha, had been a bitter blow. Outwardly they strove to manifest the resignation of God’s anointed. At night when they sat alone they held each other’s hands, and wept over the bits of needlework the girl had left.
Deacon Simpson was a stern and upright man. No one recognised more clearly than he, that his son Len was no fit mate for brown-haired Martha Didymus. And yet, he loved his boy.
The two young people accepted the judgment upon them. Len’s sullen acceptance of the inevitable was broken by fits of hot-headed rebellion against the decorum of the community, which evidently regarded this bitter dispensation as his just due, yet he never gave up hope until pale Martha Didymus told him to go his way. Then indeed he departed upon his solitary road, and an evil one it seemed to village eyes.
Poor Martha! Duty may excite one to an excess of courage, but it cannot sustain. She “peaked and pined,” and the end of it for her was that she was overtaken by sleep before her time, and went to take her place in the silent congregation.
“Ask Mr. Didymus about Len,” said Vashti to her father, catching his sleeve, and detaining him for a moment, as he was about to lead the horses into the sheds.
“Yes—if I have a chance,” said her father, and he raised his voice to speak to young Ranger.
“Well, Ab, what hev’ you been doin’ to-day?”
“Hoeing,” said the shock-headed young chap laconically.
“Well,” said Mr. Lansing approvingly, “it’s about all one can do for the roots in weather like this, and a good thing it is too. You know the old sayin’, ‘You can draw more water with a hoe than with a bucket.’ That’s true, ’specially when the wells are all dry.”
The two moved away together and Vashti turned to the others. Temperance had left to talk to Sue Winder, one of her great cronies. Lanty had joined Mabella and Sidney.