“I wish’t you could stay to supper!” said Mary Sands.

“I wish’t I could!” said Calvin. “I want you to understand that right enough; and I guess you do!” he added, with a look that brought the color into Mary’s wholesome brown cheek. “But they plead with me kind o’ pitiful, and honest, I’m sorry for them two women, Miss Hands. They don’t seem to be real pop’lar with the neighbors I don’t know just how ’tis, but so ‘tis, and they kind o’ look to me, you see. You understand how ’tis, don’t you, Mary I would say Miss Hands?”

“I expect I do, Mr. Parks!” said Mary gently, yet with some significance.

Calvin looked down at her, and his heart swelled. An immense wave of tenderness seemed to flow from him, enfolding the little woman as she stood there, so neat and trim in her blue cashmere dress, her pretty head bent, the light playing in the waves of her pretty hair.

“For two cents and a half,” Calvin Parks said silently, “I’d pick you up and carry you off this minute of time. You’re my woman, and don’t you forget it!” Then he spoke aloud, and his voice sounded strange in his ears.

“You and the boys,” he said, “are always askin’ me for stories. If if I should come and tell you a story some day the very first day I had a right to that the boys warn’t goin’ to hear, nor anybody else but just you would you listen to it, Miss Hands?”

Mary’s head bent still lower, and she examined the hem of her apron critically. “I expect I would, Mr. Parks!” she said softly.

But when Calvin had driven off, chirrupping joyfully to the brown horse, Mary’s little brown hands came together with a clasp, and she looked anxiously after him.

“If they don’t get you away from me!” she said. “Oh! my good, kind, there! stupid dear, if they don’t get you away from me!”

“Hossy,” said Calvin; “do you feel good? Do you? Speak up!”

The brown horse shook his head as the whip cracked past his ear, and whinnied reproachfully.

“Sho!” said Calvin. “You don’t mean that. I know it’s a mite late, but we’ll get there, and you’re sure of a good supper, whatever I be. But we’ve had us a great day, little hossy! we’ve had us a great day. Them two poor old mis’able lobster-claws is j’ined together, and betwixt the two they’ll make a pretty fair lobster, take and humor ’em, and kind of ease ’em along till they get used to each other again. And they ain’t the only ones that’s feelin’ good, little hossy; no siree and the bob-cat’s tail! You take them four good-lookin’ legs of your’n round the Lord’s earth, and if you find a happier man than little Calvin is to-night, I’ll give you a straw bunnet for Easter. Put that in your well, not exactly pipe and smoke it say nose-bag and smell it! Gitty up, you little hossy!” He flourished the whip round the head of the brown horse, who, catching the holiday spirit, flung up his heels incontinent, and broke into a canter even as his master broke into song.

“Now Renzo had a feedle,
That’s what Renzo had, tiddy hi!
’Twas humped up in the meedle,
So haul the bowline, haul!
He played a tune, and the old cow died,
And the skipper and crew jumped over the side,
And swum away on the slack of the tide,
So haul the bowline, haul!”

The moon came up over the great snow-fields, and the world from ghostly white flashed into silver and ebony. The “orbed maiden” seemed to smile on Calvin Parks as he jogged along the white road; perhaps in all her sweep of vision she may have seen few things pleasanter than this middle-aged lover.

“Looks real friendly, don’t she?” said Calvin. “And no wonder! Christmas night, and a prospect like this; it’s what I call sightly! I wish’t I had my little woman along to see it with me; don’t you, hossy? What say? You speak up now, when I talk to you about a lady! Where’s your manners?”

The whip cracked like a pistol shot, and the brown horse flung up his heels again from sheer good will, and whinnied his excuses.

“Now you’re talkin’!” said Calvin Parks. “And you’d better, little hossy. I want you to understand right now that if you warn’t the hossy you are and if two-three other things were as they ain’t summer instead of winter, for one of ’em it ain’t ridin’ I’d be takin’ that little woman, no sir! I’d get her aboard the Mary Sands, and we’d go slippin’ down along shore, coastwise, seein’ the country slidin’ past, and hear the water lip-lappin’, and the wind singin’ in the riggin,’ what? I tell you! there’d be a pair of vessels if ever the Lord made one and man the other.

“Sho! seein’ in that paper that Cap’n Bates was leavin’ the Mary and goin’ aboard a tug has got me worked up, kind of. If it warn’t that I had sworn off rovin’ and rollin’ for ever more I tell you! Jerusalem! but I’d like to hear the Mary talkin’ once more never was a vessel had a pleasanter way of speakin’ there again they’re alike, them two. Take her with all sails drawin’, half a gale o’ wind blowin’, and if she don’t sing, that schooner, then I never heard singin,’ that’s all. And even in a calm, just lying rollin’ on a long swell, and she’ll say ’Easy does it! easy does it! breeze up soon, and Mary knows it!’ and the water lip-lappin’, and the sails playin’ ’Isick and Josh, Isick and Josh,’ great snakes! Gitty up, hossy, or I shall take the wrong turn and drive to Bath instead of Tinkham.”

Spite of moonlight and good spirits, the way was long, and it was near nine o’clock when Calvin drove in at the Widow Marlin’s gateway. He whistled, a cheerful and propitiatory note, as he drove past the house to the barn.

“Presume likely they’ll be put out some at me bein’ late,” he said; “but you shall have your supper first, hossy, don’t you be afeared! They can’t no more than kill me, anyway, and I don’t know as they’d find it specially easy to-night.”

The house was ominously silent as Calvin entered. The kitchen was empty, and he opened the door of the sitting-room, but paused on the threshold. Miss Phrony Marlin was sitting in the corner, weeping ostentatiously, with loud and prolonged sniffs. Her mother, a little withered woman like crumpled parchment, cowered witch-like over the air-tight stove, and looked at Calvin and then at her daughter, but said nothing.

“Excuse me!” said Calvin, stepping back. “I’ll go into the kitchen. I didn’t know; no bad news, I hope, Mis’ Marlin?”

“She’s all broke up!” said the old woman.

“So I see. Anything special happened?”

“Oh! you cruel man!” moaned Miss Phrony from the corner.

“Who?” said Calvin. “Me? Now what a way to talk! What’s the matter, Miss Phrony? What have I done? Why, I haven’t been here since breakfast time.”

“That’s it!” said the widow. “She’s ben lookin’ for you all afternoon, and she had extry victuals cooked for you, and you never come.”

“Now ain’t that a sight!” said Calvin cheerily. “Why, I told you I’d most likely be late, don’t you rec’lect I did? We’ve been a long ways to-day, hossy and me have. How about them victuals, now? I could eat a barn door, seem’s though.”

“How long was you at them Sillses?” demanded Miss Phrony, wiping her eyes elaborately. “You didn’t keep them waitin’, I’ll be bound.”

“Why, I took dinner with ’em,” said Calvin, indulgently. “I told you I was goin’ to, you know. Gorry! you wouldn’t have wanted me here to dinner if you’d seen the way I ate. How was your chicken, old lady? He looked like a good one. I picked out the best nourished one I could find.”

“I wish’t those folks was dead, and you too, and me, and everybody!” broke out Miss Phrony suddenly.

“Sho!” said Calvin Parks. “The whole set out, eh? Now I am surprised at you. Just think what all them funerals would come to; why, we should have to call on the town, certin we should. Come now, Miss Phrony, cheer up! I’ll go and get my own supper, if you’ll tell me what to get.”

“The Lord will provide!” piped up the old woman shrilly.

“I don’t doubt it,” said Calvin Parks. “I’ll kind o’ look round, though; I don’t want to give no trouble.”

“If you’ll set down, Cap’n Parks,” said Miss Phrony majestically, “I’ll get your supper.”

Once more wiping her eyes, she sailed out of the room. Calvin looked after her meditatively. “I didn’t think of her scarin’ up a tantrum,” he said, “or mebbe I’d have hastened more. I dono, though. Christmas Day, appears as though a man had a right to his time, don’t it? Not that I ain’t sorry to have discumbobberated her, for I am. I’d like to see everybody well content to-night, same as I be.”

“She says you’re breakin’ her heart!” said the old woman, her black eyes fixed on him.

“Sho! now what a way that is to talk! Why, s’pose I hadn’t come home at all; s’pose I’d stopped to supper, as they asked me to; you’d have saved victuals then, don’t you see? I wish’t I had now!” he added reflectively. “I never thought of her cookin’ anything special.”

“Supper’s ready!” sighed Miss Phrony from the doorway.

In the kitchen a cloth, not too clean, was laid, and on it, with much parade of knife and fork, appeared a very dry knuckle of ham, a plate of yellow soda biscuit, and a pallid and flabby pie. Spite of himself, Calvin’s cheery face fell as he looked on this banquet; but he sat down, and attacked the ham-bone manfully.

“How are ye, old feller?” he said. “I certinly thought I’d seen the last of you, but you come of a long-lived stock, that’s plain. Could I have a drop of tea, Miss Phrony? Seems’ though something hot would help this spread on its downward way. Fire out? Well, never mind! I’ll get along.”

“I had the spasms come on so bad,” said Miss Phrony, “along about eight o’clock, when I give you up, my stren’th went from me, and I couldn’t heave the wood to keep the fire up. I had coffee for you, but it’s cold. Would you like some?”

“I guess not!” said Calvin, recalling the coffee at breakfast. “I’ll do first-rate. Well! did you try on your tippet, what? real becomin’, was it?”

Miss Phrony’s face softened, and she gave him a languishing glance with one eye, the other trying to see what it was like, with little success.

“’Tis elegant!” she said. “’Tis the handsomest ever I saw. I’ve put it away for the future!”

“Sho!” said Calvin. “You don’t want to do that. You want to wear it to meetin’ next Sunday, Miss Phrony. Any one oughtn’t to wait too long to look handsome, you know, fear they mightn’t get round to it.”

“Oh! not next Sunday, Cap’n Parks!” cried Miss Phrony, with another languishing glance. “That is too suddin! The Sunday after, p’raps, if you will have it so.”

“Just as you say!” said Calvin, struggling with a specially dry chip of ham. “The sooner the better, Miss Phrony, if things is as you said.”

“Have some pie!” cried the lady with sudden tenderness. “Do! I made it o’ purpose for you, Cap’n!”

“Did!” said Calvin, and he eyed the pie gravely. “Well, just a leetle portion, Miss Phrony! I made a hearty dinner, and mince, is it, or or what?” he added, after the first mouthful. “I don’t seem to recognize the flavor.”

“It’s Pie-fillene!” said Miss Phrony complacently. “I got a sample package when I was over to the Corners, and I saved it for you.”

“Now that was real thoughtful of you!” said Calvin.

“Do you like it?” asked the maiden coyly.

“It’s consid’able different from mince!” said Calvin. “Yes, it is a remarkable pie,” he added, after a second bite; “no two ways about that. I never tasted one like it. Do you s’pose I could have just a mite of butter on this biscuit, Miss Phrony?”

Miss Phrony assented, and went into the pantry. Then, with one swift, stealthy motion, Calvin Parks transferred the portion of pie from his plate to the stove, replaced the stove-cover noiselessly, and was in his seat and gazing placidly at his empty plate before Miss Phrony appeared with the butter.

“Why, you’ve eat your pie real speedy!” she cried joyfully.

“It’s all gone!” said Calvin soberly. “Not a mite left. No no thank you, not another morsel! but it certinly is a remarkable pie. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go in and have a pipe with the old lady.”

“So do!” said Miss Phrony graciously. “I’ll be in as soon as I’ve done the dishes, Cap’n.”

“Don’t hasten!” said Calvin Parks earnestly.

Old Mrs. Marlin was still cowering over the stove, her fingers spread like a bird’s claws.

“Did you like your supper, Cap’n?” she asked, as Calvin entered.

“That’s what!” replied Calvin enigmatically.

“It’s all dust and ashes!” said the old lady unexpectedly.

“Well!” said Calvin. “I dono as I’d go so fur as that, quite, but it was undeniable dry.”

“Jesus’ll kerry me through!” the widow went on, rocking herself back and forth. “Dust and ashes, and Jordan rollin’ past, rollin’ past!” Her eyes glittered, and her voice rose in a sing-song whine.

“Hold on there, old lady,” said Calvin Parks. “Come out o’ that now, and let’s be sociable Christmas night. I dono as you’d think it right and proper to allow of me smokin’, what?”

The glitter died out of the old lady’s eyes; she stopped rocking, and cackled gleefully; this time-worn joke never failed to delight her. With eager, trembling fingers she brought out a cob pipe from a corner behind the stove, and handed it to Calvin, who filled it from his own pouch and returned it to her. Then he lighted his own pipe, and soon they were puffing in concert. In the pantry close by Miss Phrony was rattling dishes; they sounded like dry bones.

“There!” said Calvin comfortably. “Now you feel better, don’t you, old lady?”

The old lady nodded like a Salem mandarin.

“Jordan ain’t rollin’ so fast now, is it?”

“Nothin’ like!” said the old lady.

“Then, since we’re all comfortable and peaceful,” said Calvin, “I’ve half a mind to tell you something, old lady.”

He paused and seemed to listen; his next words were spoken silently.

“What say? Oh, you go along! I tell you I’ve got to tell some one, or I shall bust. I can’t fetch hossy into the settin’-room, can I? ’Tis betwixt sawdust and kindlin’s with these two, but yet I like the old one best.”

Then he spoke aloud. “Yes, ma’am! I reelly have a half a mind to tell you something. Some time or other not right away, you needn’t go thinkin’ that, but when I get round to it, you understand I am thinkin’ of of changin’ my condition.”

The widow uttered an exclamation, and fixed her beady eyes on him eagerly. The rattling of dishes in the pantry stopped suddenly.

“Yes!” Calvin went on, musing over his pipe. “I’ve been a rover and a rambler all my life. Old Ma Sill used to say it, and it’s true. When I was at sea I’d hanker for the shore, and sim’lar the other way round. Take last night, now but no need to go into that. Fact is, it ain’t only a woman needs a home of her own,” he went on, half to himself. “A man needs it too; his own place and his own folks; yes, sir! And come to find them folks at long last, and find ’em better than what he thought the world contained, why, what I say is, it’s a pity if he can’t scare up a place. What say, old lady? Ain’t that about the way it looked to you and Cap’n along back? You poor old dried up stockfish,” he added to himself, “I s’pose you was young once, though no one would suspicion it to look at you.”

“Dust and ashes!” said the old woman. “Dust and ashes! Jesus’ll kerry me through.”

“I shouldn’t wonder!” said Calvin Parks. And just then Miss Phrony Marlin came in from the pantry with shining eyes.