d.

Cephas therefore, by the middle of October, could be picturesquely and
alliteratively described as being raw from repeated rejections.
His bruised heart and his despised ell literally cried out for the
appreciation so long and blindly withheld. Now all at once Phoebe
disclosed a second virtue; her first and only one, hitherto, in the eyes
of Cephas, having been an ability to get on with his mother, a feat in
which many had made an effort and few indeed had succeeded. Phoebe, it
seems, had always secretly admired, respected, and loved Cephas Cole!
Never since her pale and somewhat glassy blue eye had opened on life had
she beheld a being she could so adore if encouraged in the attitude.

The moment this unusual and unexpected poultice was really applied to
Cephas's wounds, they began to heal. In the course of a month the most
ordinary observer could have perceived a physical change in him. He
cringed no more, but held his head higher; his back straightened; his
voice developed a gruff, assertive note, like that of a stern Roman
father; he let his moustache grow, and sometimes, in his most reckless
moments, twiddled the end of it. Finally he swaggered; but that was only
after Phoebe had accepted him and told him that if a girl traversed the
entire length of the Saco River (which she presumed to be the longest in
the world, the Amazon not being familiar to her), she could not hope to
find his equal as a husband.

And then congratulations began to pour in! Was ever marriage so
fortuitous! The Coles' farm joined that of the Days and the union
between the two only children would cement the friendship between the
families. The fact that Uncle Bart was a joiner, Cephas a painter, and
Abel Day a mason and bricklayer made the alliance almost providential in
its business opportunities. Phoebe's Massachusetts aunt sent a complete
outfit of gilt-edged china, a clock, and a mahogany chamber set. Aunt
Abby relinquished to the young couple a bedroom and a spare chamber in
the "main part," while the Days supplied live-geese feathers and table
and bed-linen with positive prodigality. Aunt Abby trod the air like one
inspired. "Balmy" is the only adjective that could describe her.

"If only I could 'a' looked ahead," smiled Uncle Bart quizzically to
himself, "I'd 'a' had thirteen sons and daughters an' married off one
of 'em every year. That would 'a' made Abby's good temper kind o'
permanent."

Cephas was content, too. There was