"No, no, child." The parson started briskly.
"Let us all go," said Mrs. Henderson kindly, gathering Rachel's hand up in one of hers. "Come, dear." So off they hurried, the platform's length, the farmers and their wives looking after them with the greatest interest.
"My, but ain't Mrs. Henderson glad to get a girl, though!"
"Yes, she sets by her a'ready."
"Sakes alive! I thought she was a poor child," exclaimed one woman, who was dreadfully disappointed to lose the anticipated object of charity.
"So she is," cried another—"as poor as Job's turkey, but Mr. King has dressed her up, you know, an' he's goin' to edicate her, too."
"Well, she'll pay for it, I reckon. My! she looks smart, even the back of her!"
And before very long, Rachel had been inducted into her room, a pretty little one under the eaves, neat as a pin in blue-and-white chintz covering, around which she had given a swift glance of approval. And now she was down in the parsonage kitchen, in a calico gown and checked apron; her own new brown ribbons having been taken off from her braids, rolled up carefully, and laid in the top drawer, the common, every-day ones taking their places.
Peletiah and Ezekiel were each in a corner of the kitchen, with their pale blue eyes riveted on her.
"Well, dear," Mrs. Henderson greeted her kindly, "you have changed your gown very quickly."