her waist. Her heart had turned to lead in her
breast, and, like Judy, she could have wept because the reality of love
was different from her virgin dreams.

CHAPTER III

ABEL HEARS GOSSIP AND SEES A VISION

Two nights before the wedding a corn shucking was held in the barn at
Bottom's Ordinary--a usually successful form of entertainment, by which
the strenuous labours of a score of able-bodied men were secured at the
cost of a keg of cider and a kettle of squirrel stew. In the centre of
the barn, which was dimly lighted by a row of smoky, strong-smelling
kerosene-oil lanterns, suspended on pegs from the wall, there was a
huge wooden bin, into which the golden ears were tossed, as they were
stripped of the husks, by a circle of guests, ranging in years from
old Adam at the head to the youngest son of Tim Mallory, an inquisitive
urchin of nine, who made himself useful by passing the diminishing
pitcher of cider. It was a frosty night, and the faces of the huskers
showed very red above the knitted woollen comforters which wrapped their
throats. Before each man there was a small pile of corn, still in the
blade, and this was replenished when it began to dwindle by a band of
workers in the moonlight beyond the open windows. In his effort to keep
warm somebody had started a hymn, which was vigorously accompanied by
a beating of numbed feet on the scattered husks on the floor. Above the
volume of sound old Adam's quavering falsetto could be heard piping on
like a cracked and discordant flute.

"O-ver thar, O-ver thar,
Th-ar's a la-nd of pure de-light.
O-ver th-ar,
We will la-y our bur-den do-wn.
An' re-ceive our gol-den cro-wn.
In that la-nd of pure de-light
O-ver th-ar."

"That's a cold hymn, an' unsuitable to the weather," remarked Tim
Mallory at the end of the verse. "If you ask me, I'd say thar was mo'
immediate comfort in singin' about the redness of hell-fire, an' how
mortal close we're comin' to it."

"We don't want no impiousness at this here shuckin', Tim," observed
William Ming, who occupied the position of host in Betsey's absence
about the more important matter of supper. "You fill up with cider an'
go at that thar pile befo' you."

"Then pass it on," replied Mallory, reaching for the jug of cider, which
travelled in a regular orbit from old Adam's right hand round the circle
to the neighbour on his left, who chanced to be Solomon Hatch.

"S