The parson's wife leaned on the rolling-pin, and a bright color came into her face.
"I'll tell her," said Rachel, a soft gleam in her eyes, and smoothing her apron.
"And, Peletiah, go into the buttery, and get that little pat of butter done up in a cloth, and give it to Grandma. I do wish my pies were baked"—and she fell to work again—"so I could send her one."
So Peletiah went into the buttery and got the pat of butter, and the three started off. The parson stepped away from the doorway into the entry, where he had been silently watching proceedings, and went over to the window.
"Come here, Almira." He held out his hand.
She dropped her rolling-pin and ran over to his side. He drew her to him.
"See, dear," he said.
Rachel and the two boys were proceeding over the greensward leading down the road. She had one on either side; and, wonder of wonders, they were all hand in hand.
"We're going to see your Gran," said Rachel, a very sober expression settling over her thin little face.
"What?" said Peletiah.