Thankful Rest | Page 2

it
stolidly for a second, and then laid it on the table. "Sit down a minute,
Ebenezer, an' I'll bring ye a glass of cider," she said.
And Ebenezer saw her depart to the larder nothing loath. But if he
thought Miss Hepsy meant to open the letter and confide its contents to
him he was mistaken, for she pushed it aside and went on with her
ironing. So after being briefly rested and refreshed, he went his way,
bidding her a surly good-afternoon. Still the letter lay untouched upon
the table till the last collar was hung on the horse, the irons set on the

flags to cool, and the blanket folded in the dresser. Then Miss Hepsy
broke the seal, and read without change of expression what ought to
have been a sorrowful intimation to her, the news of the death of her
younger and only sister, who had married and been left a widow in
Newhaven. But before Miss Hepsy had read to the end, her expression
did change, and she exclaimed, "Wal, if this ain't about the
humbugginest fix. Hetty's boy and gal got to come here--nowhere else
to go. Wonder what Josh'll say?"
Miss Hepsy sat down, and, crossing her long hands on her lap,
remained deep in thought till the old clock struck again, five this time.
Then she sprang to her feet, whisked the letter into the table drawer,
and fetching out baking-board and flour-basin, proceeded to make
dough for a supper cake. It was barely ready when her brother came in
at six, and he looked slightly surprised to see no signs of the supper on
the table.
"I've had a letter from Newhaven, Josh," Miss Hepsy said abruptly.
"Hetty's dead; you won't be surprised to hear, I suppose. It's from her
minister; and he says you've got to come up right away and see about
things, an' fetch back the boy and gal with you. They've got nowhere
else to go, he says, an' we're their nearest kinsfolk. I got thinkin' it over,
and forgot my work, like a fool."
Joshua Strong's grim face grew grimmer, if possible, as he listened to
his sister's words. He reached out his hand for the letter she had taken
from the drawer, and slowly spelt it to the end.
"There ain't anything for it but grin and bear it, Hepsy," he said.
"Though I don't see what business folks has marryin' an' dyin' an'
leavin' their children to poor folks to keep. It'll be a mighty difference
to expense havin' other two mouths to feed an' backs to clothe."
"An' what I'm to make of two fine gentry children, as Hetty's are sure to
be, round all the time, I don't know," said Miss Hepsy, whisking off a
griddle cake with unnecessary vigour. "I declare Hetty might have had
more sense than think we could do with 'em. I'm rare upset about it, I
can tell ye."
"It doesn't say what she died o'," said Joshua meditatively, twirling the
letter in his brown fingers.
"Died o'?" repeated Miss Hepsy tartly. "Why, of pinin' arter that
husband o' her'n. What's her fine scholar done for her now, I wonder?

Left her a lone widder to die off and leave penniless children to other
folks to keep. But I'll warrant they'll work for their meat at Thankful
Rest. I'll have no stuck-up idle notions here."
"How am I to get to Newhaven jes' now, I'd like to know," said Joshua,
"and all that corn waitin' to be stacked? It's clean beyond me."
Miss Hepsy thought a moment. "I have it. Miss Goldthwaite was here
to-day, an' she said the parson was goin' to Newhaven to-morrow to
stay a day or two. We'll get him to see to things an' bring the children
down. I'll go to Pendlepoint whenever I've got my supper, an' ask him.
Here, ask the grace quick an' let's be hurryin'," she said; and before the
few mumbled words had fallen from Joshua's lips, Miss Hepsy was
well through with her first cup of tea!
At that moment, in a darkened chamber in a quiet city street, two
orphan children clung to each other weeping, wondering fearfully to
see so white, and cold, and still, the sweet face which had been wont to
smile upon them as only a mother can.
They wept, but the days were at hand when they would realize more
bitterly than now what they had lost, and how utterly they were left
alone.

II.
THE PARSONAGE.
In the pleasant front parlour of the parsonage at Pendlepoint, the Rev.
Frank Goldthwaite and his sister were lingering over their tea-table. He
was a young man, tall and broad-shouldered, with an open kindly face,
and grave thoughtful eyes, which yet at times