“I’m wantin’ t’ go t’ bed, Tibbie,” Jonathan sighed, “for I’m wonderful tired.”
“An’ I’m tired, too, dear,” said Aunt Tibbie, softly. “Leave us all go t’ bed.”
They were soon sound asleep....
Parson All turned out to be a mild little old man with spectacles. His eyes were blue—faded, watery, shy: wherein were many flashes of humor and kindness. His face was smooth and colorless—almost as white as his hair, which was also long and thin and straight. When Jonathan came in from the sea after dark—from the night and wet and vast confusion of that place—Parson All was placidly rocking by the kitchen fire, his hands neatly folded, his trousers drawn up, so that his ankles and calves might warm; and the kitchen was in a joyous tumult, with which the little old man from Satan’s Trap was in benevolent sympathy. Jonathan had thought to find the house solemn, the wife in a fluster, the twins painfully washed and brushed, the able seamen of the little crew glued to their stools; but no! the baby was crowing in the cradle, the twins tousled and grinning, the wife beaming, the little crew rolling on the floor—the whole kitchen, indeed, in a gratefully familiar condition of chaos and glee.
At once they sat down to supper.
“I’m glad t’ have you, parson,” said Jonathan, his broad, hairy face shining with soap and delight. “That I is. I’m glad t’ have you.”
The parson’s smile was winning.
“Jonathan haves a wonderful taste for company,” Aunt Tibbie explained.
The man defended himself. “I isn’t able t’ help it,” said he. “I loves t’ feed folk. An’ I isn’t able, an’ I never was able, an’ I never will be able t’ help it. Here’s your brewis, sir. Eat hearty of it. Don’t spare it.”