"A woman who can get up such a dinner as that, Mr. Antis, is worth a thousand strong-minded females who can't cook a decent meal."
"My wife is a very good cook," replied Mr. Antis, "but I suspect the credit of the dinner belongs mostly to a kind neighbour who slipped in to assist her—Mrs. Fairchild, poor Eben's mother."
"That's the widow of Fairchild, who signed for Furness and lost his property, and afterwards died?"
"The same, sir. They live here in the village."
"And how are they off? I heard that poor Fairchild behaved very honourably. Did he lose everything?"
"Pretty much everything. The daughter has a sewing machine, and the mother has gone out nursing, and with that and Eben's wages they live comfortably, though I fancy they pinch pretty closely sometimes."
"Indeed! I am sorry to hear it. I shall be glad if you will send them a bag of fine flour, with my compliments, Mr. Antis—or I will speak to the boy myself. Jeduthun, where is young Fairchild?"
"I guess he is up in the loft, sir," replied Jeduthun. "He feels dreadful badly about losing his place, but he says he means to leave everything in first-rate order, so he's putting the loft to rights, to begin with."
"Losing his place! What do you mean?" asked Mr. Francis. "Who has dismissed him?"
"He thought you had."