th Patience," said Aunt Abby. "He knows when she takes
milk to the Morrills', or butter to the parsonage; also when she eats
an' drinks an' winks her eye an' ketches her breath an' lifts her
foot. Now he's disappeared an' we'll wait.. .. Why, as to that Boston
singer,--an' by the way, they say Ellen Wilson's goin' to take lessons
of her this winter,--she kind o' bewildered me, Lyddy! Of course, I
ain't never been to any cities, so I don't feel altogether free to
criticise; but what did you think of her, when she run up so high there,
one time? I don't know how high she went, but I guess there wa'n't no
higher to go!"

"It made me kind o' nervous," allowed Mrs. Day.

"Nervous! Bart' an' I broke out in a cold sweat! He said she couldn't
hold a candle to Waitstill Baxter. But it's that little fly-away Wilson
girl that'll get the lessons, an' Waitstill will have to use her voice
callin' the Deacon home to dinner. Things ain't divided any too well in
this world, Lyddy."

"Waitstill's got the voice, but she lacks the trainin'. The Boston
singer knows her business, I'll say that for her," said Mrs. Day.

"She's got good stayin' power," agreed Aunt Abby. "Did you notice how
she held on to that high note when she'd clumb where she wanted to git?
She's got breath enough to run a gristmill, that girl has! And how'd she
come down, when she got good and ready to start? Why, she zig-zagged an'
saw-toothed the whole way! It kind o' made my flesh creep!"

"I guess part o' the trouble's with us country folks," Mrs. Day
responded, "for folks said she sung runs and trills better'n any woman
up to Boston."

"Runs an' trills," ejaculated Abby scornfully. "I was talkin' 'bout
singin' not runnin'. My niece Ella up to Parsonfield has taken three
terms on the pianner an' I've heerd her practise. Scales has got to be
done, no doubt, but they'd ought to be done to home, where they belong;
a concert ain't no place for 'em... . There, what did I tell yer?
Patience Baxter's crossin' the bridge with a pail in her hand. She's got
that everlastin' yeller-brown, linsey-woolsey on, an' a white 'cloud'
wrapped around her head with con'sid'able red hair showin' as usual. You
can always see her fur's you can a sunrise! And there goes Rod Boynton,
chasin' behind as usual. Those Baxter girls make a perfect fool o' that
boy, but I don't s'pose Lois Boynton's got wit enough to make much fuss
over the poor little creeter!"

Mark Wilson could certainly se