ere alone. It don't seem right,
and I don't think it is right."

"What's to do, child? There ain't nary one to come and live with me.
They're all gone but Joe. My Lord knows I'm an old woman seventy-three
years of age."

"What then, Mother Bartlett?" Diana asked curiously.

"He'll take care of me, my dear."

"But then, we ought to take care of ourselves," said Diana. "Now if Joe
would marry somebody"--

"Joe ain't lucky in that line," said the old lady laughing again. "And
may be what he might like, I mightn't. Before you go to wishin' for
changes, you'd better know what they'll be. I'm content child. There
ain't a thing on earth I want that I haven't got. Now what's the news?"

Diana began and told her the whole story of the sewing meeting and the
accident and the nursing of the injured girl. Mrs. Bartlett had an
intense interest in every particular; and what Diana failed to
remember, her questions brought out.

"And how do you like the new minister?"

"Haven't you seen him yet?"

"Nay. He hain't been down my way yet. In good time he will. He's had
sick folks to see arter, Joe told me; old Jemmy Claflin, and Joe
Simmons' boy; and Mis' Atwood, and Eliza."

"I think you'll like him," said Diana slowly. "He's not like any
minister ever _I_ saw."

"What's the odds?"

"It isn't so easy to tell. He don't look like a minister, for one
thing; nor he don't talk like one; not a bit."

"Have we got a gay parson, then?" said the old lady, slightly raising
her eyebrows.

"Gay? O no! not in the way you mean. In one way he _is_ gay; he is very
pleasant; not stiff or grum, like Mr. Hardenburgh; and he is amusing
too, in a quiet way, but he _is_ amusing; he is so cool and so quick. O
no, he's not gay in the way you mean. I guess he's good."

"Do you like him?" Mrs. Bartlett asked.

"Yes," said Diana, thinking of the night of Eliza Delamater's accident.
"He is very queer."

"I don't seem to make him out by your telling, child. I'll have to
wait, I guess. I've got no sort of an idea of him, so far. Now, dear,
if you'll set the table--dinner's ready; and then we'll have some
reading."

Diana drew out a small deal table to the middle of the floor, and set
on it the delf plates and cups and saucers, the little saltcellar of
the same ware, and the knives and forks that were never near Sheffield;
in fact, were never steel. But the lettuce came out of the well crisp
and fresh and cool; and Mrs. Bartlett's pot-pie crust