prepared the breakfast, while the Deacon was graining the horse and
milking the cows. Such minor "chores" as carrying water from the well,
splitting kindling, chopping pine, or bringing wood into the kitchen,
were left to Waitstill, who had a strong back, or, if she had not, had
never been unwise enough to mention the fact in her father's presence.
The almanac day, however, which opened with sunrise, had nothing to do
with the real human day, which always began when Mr. Baxter slammed
the door behind him, and reached its high noon of delight when he
disappeared from view.

"He's opening the store shutters!" chanted Patience from the heights of
a kitchen chair by the window. "Now he's taken his cane and beaten off
the Boynton puppy that was sitting on the steps as usual,--I don't mean
Ivory's dog" (here the girl gave a quick glance at her sister), "but
Rodman's little yellow cur. Rodman must have come down to the bridge
on some errand for Ivory. Isn't it odd, when that dog has all the other
store steps to sit upon, he should choose father's, when every bone
in his body must tell him how father hates him and the whole Boynton
family."

"Father has no real cause that I ever heard of; but some dogs never
know when they've had enough beating, nor some people either." said
Waitstill, speaking from the pantry.

"Don't be gloomy when it's my birthday, Sis!--Now he's opened the door
and kicked the cat! All is ready for business at the Baxter store."

"I wish you weren't quite so free with your tongue, Patty."

"Somebody must talk," retorted the girl, jumping down from the chair
and shaking back her mop of red-gold curls. "I'll put this hateful,
childish, round comb in and out just once more, then it will disappear
forever. This very after-noon up goes my hair!"

"You know it will be of no use unless you braid it very plainly and
neatly. Father will take notice and make you smooth it down."

"Father hasn't looked me square in the face for years; besides, my
hair won't braid, and nothing can make it quite plain and neat, thank
goodness! Let us be thankful for small mercies, as Jed Morrill said when
the lightning struck his mother-in-law and skipped his wife."

"Patty, I will not permit you to repeat those tavern stories; they are
not seemly on the lips of a girl!" And Waitstill came out of the pantry
with a shadow of disapproval in her eyes and in her voice.

Patty flung her arms round her sister tempestuously, and pull