"Eat your dinner, my son," said the parson, putting a liberal portion on his plate.
"Oh, dear me!" Ezekiel essayed to, but laid down his spoon. "I don't want anything, I'm so tired."
Mrs. Henderson cast an anxious glance over at him.
"No need to worry," her husband telegraphed back, going quietly on with his own dinner. Rachel had begun on hers with hungry zest, but stopped suddenly, hopped out of her chair, and raced to the door.
"Rachel!" It wasn't a loud voice, but she found herself back again and looking into Mrs. Henderson's face.
"Sit down, dear; we do not leave the table in that way."
So Rachel slipped into her seat, feeling as if all the blood in her body were in her hot cheeks.
"Now, what is it?" The parson's wife took one of the brown hands working nervously under the tablecloth. "Tell me; don't be afraid," she said softly. But Miss Jerusha heard.
"Stuff and nonsense!" she exclaimed, with a sneer. "When I was a child, there was no such coddlin' goin' on, I can tell you."
"It's Peletiah," said Rachel. "Oh, dear me! he's out on the piazza, and he must be awfully hungry. Can't I make him come in?"