"She won't do Peletiah any harm"—and then he laughed—"and she might brighten him up, if she's the girl Mrs. Fisher's letter indicates. And as for Ezekiel, there's no harm to be thought of in that quarter. Our boys aren't the ones, wife, to be influenced out of their orbits."
"Well, there's Jerusha." Mrs. Henderson brought it out fearfully, and then shut her mouth as if she wished she hadn't said anything.
"I know, dear. You needn't be afraid to speak it out. It is always on my mind. Oh, I do wish—" and the parson began to pace the floor with troubled steps.
His wife threw back the old sofa-blanket with which he had tucked her up, and bounded to his side, passing her hand within his arm.
"Don't, dear," she begged. "Oh, why did I speak!" she cried remorsefully.
"You said no more than what is always on my mind," said the minister again, and he pressed the hand on his arm, looking at it fondly. "Poor Almira!" he said, "I didn't think how hard you would have to work to please her, when I took her here."
"But you couldn't help it, husband," she cried, looking up at him with a world of love. "After your mother died, what place was there for her to go? And she really was good to her."
"Yes," said the minister, and he sighed. "Well, it's done, and she is here; but oh, Almira, I think it's made a great difference with our boys."
Mrs. Henderson's cheek paled, but it wouldn't do to let him see her thoughts further on the subject, he was so worn and tired, so she said:
"Well, about the little girl, husband?"