She sat down herself as she spoke, and crossed her little slender feet and hands with a quick, involuntary motion, which was usual to her.

"It is as I told you," said she.

Abigail Merritt, good comrade of a wife though she was, yet turned aggressively feminine at times.
The Squire sat down.

"What do you mean, Abigail ?" "I mean--that I wish that Edwards boy had never entered this house." "Abigail, you don't mean that Lucina-- What _do_ you mean, Abigail ?" finished the Squire, feebly.
"I mean that I was right in thinking some harm would come from that boy being here so much," replied his wife.

Then she went on and repeated in substance the innocent little confession which Lucina had made to her in her chamber.
The Squire listened, his bearded chin sunken on his chest, his forehead, under the crest of yellow locks, bent gloomily.
"It seems as if you and I had done everything that we could for the child ever since she was born," he said, huskily, when his wife had finished.