"What's Rebecca done, mother?" he asked, pleadingly, catching hold of his mother's dress.

"Nothin' for you to know. Go an' wash your face an' hands, an' come in to supper."

"Mother, what's she done?" Ephraim's pleading voice lengthened into a whine. He took more liberties with his mother than any one else dared; he even jerked her dress now by way of enforcing an answer.

But she grasped his arm so vigorously that he cried out. "Go out to the pump, an' wash your face an' hands," she repeated, and Ephraim made a little involuntary run to the door.

As he went out he rolled his eyes over his shoulder at his mother with tragic surprise and reproach, but she paid no attention. When he came in she ignored the great painful sigh which he heaved and the podgy hand clapped ostentatiously over his left side. "Draw your chair up," said she.

"I dunno as I want any supper. I've got a pain. Oh dear!" Ephraim writhed, with attentive eyes upon his mother; he was like an executioner turning an emotional thumbscrew on her. But Deborah Thayer's emotions sometimes presented steel surfaces. "You can have a pain, then," said she. "I ain't goin' to let you go to ruin because you ain't well, not if I know it. You've got to mind, sick or well, an' you might jest as well know it. I'll have one child obey me, whether or no. Set up to the table."

Ephraim drew up his chair, whimpering; but he fell to on the milk-toast with ardor, and his hand dropped from his side. He had eaten half a plateful when his father came in. Caleb had been milking; the cows had been refractory as he drove them from pasture, and he was late.

"Supper's been ready half an hour," his wife said, when he entered.

"The heifer run down the old road when I was a-drivin' of her home, an' I had to chase her," Caleb returned, meekly, settling down in his arm-chair at the table.

"I guess that heifer wouldn't cut up so every night if I had the drivin' of her," remarked Deborah. She filled a plate with toast and passed it over to Caleb.

Caleb set it before him, but he did not begin to eat. He looked at Rebecca's empty place, then at his wife's face, long and pale and full of stern rancor, behind the sugar-bowl and the cream-pitcher.

"Rebecca got home?" he ventured, with wary eyes upon her.

"Yes, she's got home."

Caleb winked, meekly. "Ain't she comin' to supper?"

"I dunno whether she is or not."

"Does she know it's ready?" Deborah vouchsafed no reply. She poured out the tea.

Caleb grated his chair suddenly. "I'll jest speak to her," he proclaimed, courageously.

"She knows it's ready. You set still," said Deborah. And Caleb drew his chair close again, and loaded his knife with toast, bringing it around to his mouth with a dexterous sidewise motion.

"She ain't sick, is she?" he said, presently, with a casual air.

"No, I guess she ain't sick."

"I s'pose she eat so many cherries she didn't want any supper," Caleb said, chuckling anxiously. His wife made no reply. Ephraim reached over slyly for the toast-spoon, and she pushed his hand back.

"You can't have any more," said she.

"Can't I have jest a little more, mother?"

"No, you can't."

"I feel faint at my stomach, mother."

"You can keep on feelin' faint."

"Can't I have a piece of pie, mother?"

"You can't have another mouthful of anything to eat to-night."

Ephraim clapped his hand to his side again and sighed, but his mother took no notice.

"Have you got a pain, sonny?" asked Caleb.

"Yes, dreadful. Oh!"

"Hadn't he ought to have somethin' on it?" Caleb inquired, looking appealingly at Deborah.

"He can have some of his doctor's medicine if he don't feel better,"

she replied, in a hard voice. "Set your chair back now, Ephraim, and get out your catechism."

"I don't feel fit to, mother," groaned Ephraim.

"You do jest as I tell you," said his mother.

And Ephraim, heaving with sighs, muttering angrily far under his breath lest his mother should hear, pulled his chair back to the window, and got his catechism out of the top drawer of his father's desk, and began droning out in his weak, sulky voice the first question therein: "What is the chief end of man?"

"Now shut the book and answer it," said his mother, and Ephraim obeyed.

Ephraim was quite conversant with the first three questions and their answers, after that his memory began to weaken; either he was a naturally dull scholar, or his native indolence made him appear so.

He had been drilled nightly upon the "Assembly's Catechism" for the past five years, and had had many a hard bout with it before that in his very infancy, when his general health admitted--and sometimes, it seemed to Ephraim, when it had not admitted.

Many a time had the boy panted for breath when he rehearsed those grandly decisive, stately replies to those questions of all ages, but his mother had been obdurate. He could not understand why, but in reality Deborah held her youngest son, who was threatened with death in his youth, to the "Assembly's Catechism" as a means of filling his mind with spiritual wisdom, and fitting him for that higher state to which he might soon be called. Ephraim had been strictly forbidden to attend school--beyond reading he had no education; but his mother resolved that spiritual education he should have, whether he would or not, and whether the doctor would or not. So Ephraim laboriously read the Bible through, a chapter at a time, and he went, step by step, through the wisdom of the Divines of Westminster. No matter how much he groaned over it, his mother was pitiless. Sometimes Caleb plucked up courage and interceded. "I don't believe he feels quite ekal to learnin' of his stint to-night," he would say, and then his eyes would fall before the terrible stern pathos in Deborah's, as she would reply in her deep voice: "If he can't learn nothin' about books, he's got to learn about his own soul. He's got to, whether it hurts him or not. I shouldn't think, knowin' what you know, you'd say anything, Caleb Thayer."

And Caleb's old face would quiver suddenly like a child's; he would rub the back of his hand across his eyes, huddle himself into his arm-chair, and say no more; and Deborah would sharply order Ephraim, spying anxiously over his catechism, to go on with the next question.

It was nearly dark to-night when Ephraim finished his stint; he was slower than usual, his progress being somewhat hindered by the surreptitious eating of a hard red apple, which he had stowed away in his jacket-pocket. Hard apples were strictly forbidden to Ephraim as articles of diet, and to eat many during the season required diplomacy.

The boy's jaws worked with furious zeal over the apple during his mother's temporary absences from the room on household tasks, and on her return were mumbling solemnly and innocently the precepts of the catechism, after a spasmodic swallowing. His father was nodding in his chair and saw nothing, and had he seen would not have betrayed him. After a little inefficient remonstrance on his own account, Caleb always subsided, and watched anxiously lest Deborah should discover the misdemeanor and descend upon Ephraim.

To-night, after the task was finished, Deborah sent Ephraim stumbling out of the room to bed, muttering remonstrances, his eyes as wild and restless as a cat's, his ears full of the nocturnal shouts of his play-fellows that came through the open windows.

"Mother, can't I go out an' play ball a little while?" sounded in a long wail from the dusk outside the door.

"You go to bed," answered his mother. Then the slamming of a door shook the house.

"If he wa'n't sick, I'd whip him," said Deborah, between tight lips; the spiritual whip which Ephraim held by right of his illness over her seemed to sing past her ears. She shook Caleb with the force with which she might have shaken Ephraim. "You'd better get up an' go to bed now, instead of sleepin' in your chair," she said, imperatively; and Caleb obeyed, staggering, half-dazed, across the floor into the bedroom. Deborah was only a few years younger than her husband, but she had retained her youthful vigor in much greater degree. She never felt the drowsiness of age stealing over her at nightfall. Indeed, oftentimes her senses seemed to gain in alertness as the day wore on, and many a night she was up and at work long after all the other members of her family were in bed. There came at such times to Deborah Thayer a certain peace and triumphant security, when all the other wills over which her own held contested sway were lulled to sleep, and she could concentrate all her energies upon her work. Many a long task of needle-work had she done in the silence of the night, by her dim oil lamp; in years past she had spun and woven, and there was in a clothes-press up-stairs a wonderful coverlid in an intricate pattern of blue and white, and not a thread of it woven by the light of the sun.

[Illustration: "Many a long task of needle-work had she done"]

None of the neighbors knew why Deborah Thayer worked so much at night; they attributed it to her tireless industry. "The days wa'n't never long enough for Deborah Thayer," they said--and she did not know why herself.

There was deep in her heart a plan for the final disposition of these nightly achievements, but she confided it to no one, not even to Rebecca. The blue-and-white coverlid, many a daintily stitched linen garment and lace-edged pillow-slip she destined for Rebecca when she should be wed, although she frowned on Rebecca's lover and spoke harshly to her of marriage. To-night, while Rebecca lay sobbing in her little bedroom, the mother knitted assiduously until nearly midnight upon a wide linen lace with which to trim dimity curtains for the daughter's bridal bedstead.

Deborah needed no lamplight for this knitting-work; she was so familiar with it, having knitted yards with her thoughts elsewhere, that she could knit without seeing her needles.