clean kitchen, busily spinning at the
little wheel, and rose flushed with pleasure at the honor that was done
her.

"Pray, walk in, Mr. Sewell," she said, rising, and leading the way
toward the penetralia of the best room.

"Now, Mrs. Pennel, I am come here for a good sit-down by your
kitchen-fire, this evening," said Mr. Sewell. "Emily has gone out to sit
with old Mrs. Broad, who is laid up with the rheumatism, and so I am
turned loose to pick up my living on the parish, and you must give me a
seat for a while in your kitchen corner. Best rooms are always cold."

"The minister's right," said Captain Kittridge. "When rooms ain't much
set in, folks never feel so kind o' natural in 'em. So you jist let me
put on a good back-log and forestick, and build up a fire to tell
stories by this evening. My wife's gone out to tea, too," he said, with
an elastic skip.

And in a few moments the Captain had produced in the great cavernous
chimney a foundation for a fire that promised breadth, solidity, and
continuance. A great back-log, embroidered here and there with tufts of
green or grayish moss, was first flung into the capacious arms of the
fireplace, and a smaller log placed above it. "Now, all you young uns go
out and bring in chips," said the Captain. "There's capital ones out to
the wood-pile."

Mr. Sewell was pleased to see the flash that came from the eyes of
little Moses at this order, how energetically he ran before the others,
and came with glowing cheeks and distended arms, throwing down great
white chips with their green mossy bark, scattering tufts on the floor.
"Good," said he softly to himself, as he leaned on the top of his
gold-headed cane; "there's energy, ambition, muscle;" and he nodded his
head once or twice to some internal decision.

"There!" said the Captain, rising out of a perfect whirlwind of chips
and pine kindlings with which in his zeal he had bestrown the wide,
black stone hearth, and pointing to the tongues of flame that were
leaping and blazing up through the crevices of the dry pine wood which
he had intermingled plentifully with the more substantial fuel,--"there,
Mis' Pennel, ain't I a master-hand at a fire? But I'm really sorry I've
dirtied your floor," he said, as he brushed down his pantaloons, which
were covered with bits of grizzly moss, and looked on the surrounding
desolations; "give me a broom, I can sweep up now as well as any woman."

"Oh, never mind," said Mrs. Pennel, laughi