The Revolt of 'Mother_'

"The Revolt of 'Mother.'"Wilkins, Mary E.. "The Revolt of 'Mother.'"
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"The Revolt of 'Mother.'"
Wilkins, Mary E.

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1995

About the print version

The Revolt of "Mother"
Mary E. Wilkins
Harper & Brothers, Publishers
327 to 335 Pearl Street, Franklin Square, New York
1890
Harper's New Monthly Magazine

Note: Vol. 81 (Sept. 1890): 553-561.
Spell-check and verification made against printed text using WordPerfect
spell checker

Published: 1890


English fiction, prose Women Writers

Revisions to the electronic version
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-553-




THE REVOLT OF "MOTHER."
BY MARY E. WILKINS.
"FATHER!"
"What is it?"
"What are them men diggin' over there in the field for?"
There was a sudden dropping and enlarging of the lower part of the old man's
face, as if some heavy weight had settled therein; he shut his mouth tight, and
went on harnessing the great bay mare. He hustled the collar on to her neck with
a jerk.
"Father!"
The old man slapped the saddle upon the mare's back.
"Look here, father, I want to know what them men are diggin' over in the
field for, an' I'm goin' to know."
"I wish you'd go into the house, mother, an' 'tend to your own affairs," the
old man said then. He ran his words together, and his speech was almost as
inarticulate as a growl.
But the woman understood; it was her most native tongue. "I ain't goin' into
the house till you tell me what them men are doin' over there in the field,"
said she.
Then she stood waiting. She was a small woman, short and straight-waisted
like a child in her brown cotton gown. Her forehead was mild and benevolent
between the smooth curves of gray hair; there were meek downward lines about her
nose and mouth; but her eyes, fixed upon the old man, looked as if the meekness
had been the result of her own will, never of the will of another.
They were in the barn, standing before the wi

de open doors. The spring air,
full of the smell of growing grass and unseen blossoms, came in their faces. The
deep yard in front was littered with farm wagons and piles of wood; on the
edges, close to the fence and the house, the grass was a vivid green, and there
were some dandelions.
The old man glanced doggedly at his wife as he tightened the last buckles on
the harness. She looked as immovable to him as one of the rocks in his
pastureland, bound to the earth with generations of blackberry vines. He slapped
the reins over the horse, and started forth from the barn.
"Father! said she.
The old man pulled up. "What is it?"
"I want to know what them men are diggin' over there in that field for."
"They're diggin' a cellar, I s'pose, if you've got to know."
"A cellar for what?"
"A barn."
"A barn? You ain't goin' to build a barn over there where we was goin' to
have a house, father?"
The old man said not another word. He hurried the horse into the farm wagon,
and clattered out of the yard, jouncing as sturdily on his seat as a boy.
The woman stood a moment looking after him, then she went out of the barn
across a corner of the yard to the house. The house, standing at right angles
with






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the great barn and a long reach of sheds and out-buildings, was infinitesimal
compared with them. It was scarcely as commodious for people as the little boxes
under the barn eaves were for doves.
A pretty girl's face, pink and delicate as a flower, was looking out of one
of the house windows. She was watching three men who were digging over in the
field which bounded the yard near the road line. She turned quietly when the
woman entered.
"What are they diggin' for, mother?" said she. "Did he tell you?"
"They're diggin' for -- a cellar for a new barn."
"Oh, mother, he ain't goin' to build another barn?"
"That's what he says."
A boy stood before the kitchen glass combing his hair. He combed slowly and
painstakingly, arranging his brown hair in a smooth hillock over his forehead.
He did not seem to pay any attention to the conversation.
"Sammy, did you know father was goin' to build a new barn?" asked the girl.
The boy combed assiduously.
"Sammy!"
He turned, and showed a face like his father's under his smooth crest of
hair. "Yes, I s'pose I did," he said, reluctantly.
"How long have you known it?" asked his mother.
"'Bout three months, I guess."
"Why didn't you tell of it?"
"Didn't think 'twould do no good."
"I don't see what father wants another barn for," said the girl, in her sweet
slow voice. She turned again to the window, and stared out at the digging men in
the field. Her tender sweet face was full of a gentle distress. Her forehead was
as bald and innocent as a baby's, with the light hair strained back from it in a
row of curl-papers. She was quite large, but her soft

curves did not look as if
they covered muscles.
Her mother looked sternly at the boy. "Is he goin' to buy more cows?" said
she.
The boy did not reply; he was tying his shoes.
"Sammy, I want you to tell me if he's goin' to buy more cows."
"I s'pose he is."
"How many?"
"Four, I guess."
His mother said nothing more. She went into the pantry, and there was a
clatter of dishes. The boy got his cap from a nail behind the door, took an old
arithmetic from the shelf, and started for school. He was lightly built, but
clumsy. He went out of the yard with a curious spring in the hips, that made his
loose homemade jacket tilt up in the rear.
The girl went to the sink, and began to wash the dishes that were piled up
there. Her mother came promptly out of the pantry, and shoved her aside. "You
wipe 'em," said she; "I'll wash. There's a good many this mornin'."
The mother plunged her hands vigorously into the water, the girl wiped the
plates slowly and dreamily. "Mother," said she, "don't you think it's too bad
father's goin' to build that new barn, much as we need a decent house to live
in?"
Her mother scrubbed a dish fiercely. "You 'ain't found out yet we're
women-folks, Nanny Penn," said she. "You 'ain't seen enough of men-folks yet to.
One of these days you'll find it out, an' then you'll know that we know only
what men-folks think we do, so far as any use of it goes, an' how we'd ought to
reckon men-folks in with Providence an' not complain of what they do any more
than we do of the weather."
"I don't care; I don't believe George is anything like that, anyhow," said
Nanny. Her delicate face flushed pink, her lips pouted softly, as if she were
going to cry.
"You wait an' see. I guess George Eastman ain't no better than other men. You
hadn't ought to judge father, though. He can't help it, 'cause he don't look at
things jest the way we do. An' we've been pretty comfortable here, after all.
The roof don't leak -- 'ain't never but once -- that's one thing. Father kept it
shingled right up."
"I do wish we had a parlor."
"I guess it won't hurt George Eastman any to come to see you in a nice clean
kitchen. I guess a good many girls don't have as good a place as this. Nobody's
ever heard me complain."
"I 'ain't complained either, mother."
"Well, I don't think you'd better, a good father an' a good home as you've
got. S'pose your father made you go out an' work for your livin'? Lots of girls
have to that ain't no stronger an' better able to than you be."
Sarah Penn washed the frying-pan with






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a conclusive air. She scrubbed the outside of it as faithfully as the inside.
She was a masterly keeper of her box of a house. Her one livingroom never seemed
to have in it any of the dust which the friction of life with inanimate matter
produces. She swept, and there seemed to be no dirt to go before the broom;

she
cleaned, and one could see no difference. She was like an artist so perfect that
he has apparently no art. To-day she got out a mixing bowl and a board, and
rolled some pies, and there was no more flour upon her than upon her daughter
who was doing finer work. Nanny was to be married in the fall, and she was
sewing on some white cambric and embroidery. She sewed industriously while her
mother cooked, her soft milk-white hands and wrists showed whiter than her
delicate work.
"We must have the stove moved out in the shed before long," said Mrs. Penn.
"Talk about not havin' things, it's been a real blessin' to be able to put a
stove up in that shed in hot weather. Father did one good thing when he fixed
that stove-pipe out there."
Sarah Penn's face as she rolled her pies had that expression of meek vigor
which might have characterized one of the New Testament saints. She was making
mince-pies. Her husband, Adoniram Penn, liked them better than any other kind.
She baked twice a week. Adoniram often liked a piece of pie between meals. She
hurried this morning. It had been later than usual when she began, and she
wanted to have a pie baked for dinner. However deep a resentment she might be
forced to hold against her husband, she would never fail in sedulous attention
to his wants.
Nobility of character manifests itself at loop-holes when it is not provided
with large doors. Sarah Penn's showed itself today in flaky dishes of pastry. So
she made the pies faithfully, while across the table she could see, when she
glanced up from her work, the sight that rankled in her patient and steadfast
soul -- the digging of the cellar of the new barn in the place where Adoniram
forty years ago had promised her their new house should stand.
The pies were done for dinner. Adoniram and Sammy were home a few minutes
after twelve o'clock. The dinner was eaten with serious haste. There was never
much conversation at the table in the Penn family. Adoniram asked a blessing,
and they ate promptly, then rose up and went about their work.
Sammy went back to school, taking soft sly lopes out of the yard like a
rabbit. He wanted a game of marbles before school, and feared his father would
give him some chores to do. Adoniram hastened to the door and called after him,
but he was out of sight.
"I don't see what you let him go for, mother," said he. "I wanted him to help
me unload that wood."
Adoniram went to work out in the yard unloading wood from the wagon. Sarah
put away the dinner dishes, while Nanny took down her curl-papers and changed
her dress. She was going down to the store to buy some more embroidery and
thread.
When Nanny was gone, Mrs. Penn went to the door. "Father!" she called.
"Well, what is it?"
"I want to see you jest a minute, father."
"I can't leave this wood nohow. I've got to git it unloaded an' go for a load
of gravel afore two o'clock

. Sammy had ought to helped me. You hadn't ought to
let him go to school so early."
"I want to see you jest a minute."
"I tell ye I can't, nohow, mother."
"Father, you come here." Sarah Penn stood in the door like a queen; she held
her head as if it bore a crown; there was that patience which makes authority
royal in her voice. Adoniram went.
Mrs. Penn led the way into the kitchen, and pointed to a chair. "Sit down,
father," said she; "I've got somethin' I want to say to you."
He sat down heavily; his face was quite stolid, but he looked at her with
restive eyes. "Well, what is it, mother?"
"I want to know what you're buildin' that new barn for, father?"
"I 'ain't got nothin' to say about it."
"It can't be you think you need another barn?"
"I tell ye I 'ain't got nothin' to say about it, mother; an' I ain't goin' to
say nothin'."
"Be you goin' to buy more cows?"
Adoniram did not reply; he shut his mouth tight.
"I know you be, as well as I want to. Now, father, look here" -- Sarah Penn
had not sat down; she stood before her husband in the humble fashion of a
Scripture






-556-


woman -- "I'm goin' to talk real plain to you: I never have sence I married you,
but I'm goin' to now. I 'ain't never complained, an' I ain't goin' to complain
now, but I'm goin' to talk plain. You see this room here, father; you look at it
well. You see there ain't no carpet on the floor, an' you see the paper is all
dirty, an' droppin' off the walls. We 'ain't had no new paper on it for ten
year, an' then I put it on myself, an' it didn't cost but nine-pence a roll. You
see this room, father; it's all the one I've had to work in an' eat in an' sit
in sence we was married. There ain't another woman in the whole town whose
husband 'ain't got half the means you have but what's got better. It's all the
room Nanny's got to have her company in; an' there ain't one of her mates but
what's got better, an' their fathers not so able as hers is. It's all the room
she'll have to be married in. What would you have thought, father, if we had had
our weddin' in a room no better than this? I was married in my mother's parlor,
with a carpet on the floor, an' stuffed furniture, an' a mahogany card-table.
An' this is all the room my daughter will have to be married in. Look here,
father!"
Sarah Penn went across the room as though it were a tragic stage. She flung
open a door and disclosed a tiny bedroom, only large enough for a bed and
bureau, with a path between. "There, father," said she -- "there's all the room
I've had to sleep in for forty year. All my children were born there -- the two
that died, an' the two that's livin'. I was sick with a fever there."
She stepped to another door and opened it. It led into the small, ill-lighted
pantry. "Here," said she, "is all the buttery I've got -- every place I've got
for my dishes to set away my victua

ls in, an' to keep my milk-pans in. Father,
I've been takin' care of the milk of six cows in this place, an' now you're
goin' to build a new barn, an' keep more cows, an' give me more to do in it."
She threw open another door. A narrow crooked flight of stairs wound upward
from it. "There, father!" said she; "I want you to look at the stairs that go up
to them two unfinished chambers that are all the places our son an' daughter
have had to sleep in all their lives. There ain't a prettier girl in town nor a
more ladylike one than Nanny, an' that's the place she has to sleep in. It ain't
so good as your horse's stall; it ain't so warm an' tight."
Sarah Penn went back and stood before her husband. "Now, father," said she,
"I want to know if you think you're doin' right an' accordin' to what you
profess. Here, when we was married, forty year ago, you promised me faithful
that we should have a new house built in that lot over in the field before the
year was out. You said you had money enough, an' you wouldn't ask me to live in
no such place as this. It is forty year now, an' you've been makin' more money,
an' I've been savin' of it for you ever since, an' you 'ain't built no house
yet. You've built sheds, an' cow-houses an' one new barn, an' now you're goin'
to build another. Father, I want to know if you think it's right. You're lodgin'
your dumb beasts better than you are your own flesh an' blood. I want to know if
you think it's right."
"I 'ain't got nothin' to say."
"You can't say nothin' without ownin' it ain't right, father. An' there's
another thing -- I ain't complained; I've got along forty year, an' I s'pose I
should forty more, if it wa'n't for that -- if we don't have another house,
Nanny she can't live with us after she's married. She'll have to go somewheres
else to live away from us, an' it don't seem as if I could have it so, noways,
father. She wa'n't ever strong. She's got considerable color, but there wa'n't
never any backbone to her. I've always took the heft of everything off her, an'
she ain't fit to keep house an' do everything herself. She'll be all worn out
inside of a year. Think of her doin' all the washin' an' ironin' an' bakin' with
them soft white hands an' arms, an' sweepin'! I can't have it so, noways,
father."
Mrs. Penn's face was burning; her mild eyes gleamed. She had pleaded her
little cause like a Webster; she had ranged from severity to pathos; but her
opponent employed that obstinate silence which makes eloquence futile with
mocking echoes. Adoniram arose clumsily.
"Father, 'ain't you got nothin' to say?" said Mrs. Penn.
"I've got to go off after that load of gravel. I can't stan' here talkin' all
day."
"Father, won't you think it over, an' have a house built there instead of a
barn?"
"I 'ain't got nothin' to say."






-557-



Adoniram shuffled out. Mrs. Penn went into her bedroom. When

she came out,
her eyes were red. She had a roll of unbleached cotton cloth. She spread it out
on the kitchen table, and began cutting out some shirts for her husband. The men
over in the field had a team to help them this afternoon; she could hear their
halloos. She had a scanty pattern for the shirts; she had to plan and piece the
sleeves.
Nanny came home with her embroidery, and sat down with her needle-work. She
had taken down her curl-papers, and there was a soft roll of fair hair like an
aureole over her forehead; her face was as delicately fine and clear as
porcelain. Suddenly she looked up, and the tender red flamed all over her face
and neck. "Mother," said she.
"What say?"
"I've been thinkin' -- I don't see how we're goin' to have any -- weddin' in
this room. I'd be ashamed to have his folks come if we didn't have anybody
else."
"Mebbe we can have some new paper before then; I can put it on. I guess you
won't have no call to be ashamed of your belongin's."
"We might have the weddin' in the new barn," said Nanny, with gentle
pettishness. "Why, mother, what makes you look so?"
Mrs. Penn had started, and was staring at her with a curious expression. She
turned again to her work, and spread out a pattern carefully on the cloth.
"Nothin'," said she.
Presently Adoniram clattered out of the yard in his two-wheeled dump cart,
standing as proudly upright as a Roman charioteer. Mrs. Penn opened the door and
stood there a minute looking out; the halloos of the men sounded louder.
It seemed to her all through the spring months that she heard nothing but the
halloos and the noises of saws and hammers. The new barn grew fast. It was a
fine edifice for this little village. Men came on pleasant Sundays, in their
meeting suits and clean shirt bosoms, and stood around it admiringly. Mrs. Penn
did not speak of it, and Adoniram did not mention it to her, although sometimes,
upon a return from inspecting it, he bore himself with injured dignity.
"It's a strange thing how your mother feels about the new barn," he said,
confidentially, to Sammy one day.
Sammy only grunted after an odd fashion for a boy: he had learned it from his
father.
The barn was all completed ready for use by the third week in July. Adoniram
had planned to move his stock in on Wednesday; on Tuesday he received a letter
which changed his plans. He came in with it early in the morning. "Sammy's been
to the post-office," said he, "an' I've got a letter from Hiram." Hiram was Mrs.
Penn's brother, who lived in Vermont.
"Well," said Mrs. Penn, "what does he say about the folks?"
"I guess they're all right. He says he thinks if I come up country right off
there's a chance to buy jest the kind of a horse I want." He stared reflectively
out of the window at the new barn.
Mrs. Penn was making pies. She went on clapping the rolling-pin into the
crust, although she was v

ery pale, and her heart beat loudly.
"I dunno' but what I'd better go," said Adoniram. "I hate to go off jest now,
right in the midst of hayin', but the ten-acre lot's cut, an' I guess Rufus an'
the others can git along without me three or four days. I can't get a horse
round here to suit me, nohow, an' I've got to have another for all that
wood-haulin' in the fall. I told Hiram to watch out, an' if he got wind of a
good horse to let me know. I guess I'd better go."
"I'll get out your clean shirt an' collar," said Mrs. Penn, calmly.
She laid out Adoniram's Sunday suit and his clean clothes on the bed in the
little bedroom. She got his shaving water and razor ready. At last she buttoned
on his collar and fastened his black cravat.
Adoniram never wore his collar and cravat except on extra occasions. He held
his head high, with a rasped dignity. When he was all ready, with his coat and
hat brushed, and a lunch of pie and cheese in a paper bag, he hesitated on the
threshold of the door. He looked at his wife, and his manner was defiantly
apologetic. "If them cows come to-day, Sammy can drive 'em into the new barn,"
said he; "an' when they bring the hay up, they can pitch it in there."
"Well," replied Mrs. Penn.
Adoniram set his shaven face ahead and started. When he had cleared the
door-step, he turned and looked back with






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a kind of nervous solemnity. "I shall be back by Saturday if nothin' happens,"
said he.
"Do be careful, father," returned his wife.
She stood in the door with Nanny at her elbow and watched him out of sight.
Her eyes had a strange, doubtful expression in them; her peaceful forehead was
contracted. She went in, and about her baking again. Nanny sat sewing. Her
wedding day was drawing nearer, and she was getting pale and thin with her
steady sewing. Her mother kept glancing at her.
"Have you got that pain in your side this mornin'?" she asked.
"A little."
Mrs. Penn's face, as she worked, changed, her perplexed forehead smoothed,
her eyes were steady, her lips firmly set. She formed a maxim for herself,
although incoherently with her unlettered thoughts. "Unsolicited opportunities
are the guideposts of the Lord to the new roads of life," she repeated in
effect, and she made up her mind to her course of action.
"S'posin' I had wrote to Hiram," she muttered once, when she was in the
pantry -- "s'posin' I had wrote, an' asked him if he knew of any horse? But I
didn't, an' father's goin' wa'n't none of my doin'. It looks like a Providence."
Her voice rang out quite loud at the last.
"What you talkin' about, mother?" called Nanny.
"Nothin'."
Mrs. Penn hurried her baking; at eleven o'clock it was all done. The load of
hay from the west field came slowly down the cart track, and drew up at the new
barn. Mrs. Penn ran out. "Stop!" she screamed -- "stop!"
The men stopped and looked; Samm

y upreared from the top of the load, and
stared at his mother.
"Stop!" she cried out again. "Don't you put the hay in that barn; put it in
the old one."
"Why, he said to put it in here," returned one of the haymakers, wonderingly.
He was a young man, a neighbor's son, whom Adoniram hired by the year to help on
the farm.
"Don't you put the hay in the new barn; there's room enough in the old one,
ain't there?" said Mrs. Penn.
"Room enough," returned the hired man, in his thick, rustic tones. "Didn't
need the new barn, nohow, far as room's concerned. Well, I s'pose he changed his
mind." He took hold of the horses' bridles.
Mrs. Penn went back to the house. Soon the kitchen windows were darkened, and
a fragrance like warm honey came into the room.
Nanny laid down her work. "I thought father wanted them to put the hay into
the new barn?" she said, wonderingly.
"It's all right," replied her mother.
Sammy slid down from the load of hay and came in to see if dinner was ready.
"I ain't goin' to get a regular dinner to-day, as long as father's gone,"
said his mother. "I've let the fire go out. You can have some bread an' milk an'
pie. I thought we could get along." She set out some bowls of milk, some bread,
and a pie on the kitchen table. "You'd better eat your dinner now," said she.
"You might jest as well get through with it. I want you to help me afterward."
Nanny and Sammy stared at each other. There was something strange in their
mother's manner. Mrs. Penn did not eat anything herself. She went into the
pantry, and they heard her moving dishes while they ate. Presently she came out
with a pile of plates. She got the clothes-basket out of the shed, and packed
them in it. Nanny and Sammy watched. She brought out cups and saucers, and put
them in with the plates.
"What you goin' to do, mother?" inquired Nanny, in a timid voice. A sense of
something unusual made her tremble, as if it were a ghost. Sammy rolled his eyes
over his pie.
"You'll see what I'm goin' to do," replied Mrs. Penn. "If you're through,
Nanny, I want you to go up stairs an' pack up your things; an' I want you,
Sammy, to help me take down the bed in the bed-room."
"Oh, mother, what for?" gasped Nanny.
"You'll see."
During the next few hours a feat was performed by this simple, pious New
England mother which was equal in its way to Wolfe's storming of the Heights of
Abraham. It took no more genius and audacity of bravery for Wolfe to cheer his
wondering soldiers up those steep precipices, under the sleeping eyes of the
enemy, than for Sarah Penn, at the head of her children, to move all her little
household






-559-


goods into the new barn while her husband was away.
Nanny and Sammy followed their mother's instructions without a murmur;
indeed, they were overawed. There is a certain uncanny and superhuman quality
about all such purely o

riginal undertakings as their mother's was to them. Nanny
went back and forth with her light loads, and Sammy tugged with sober energy.
At five o'clock in the afternoon the little house in which the Penns had
lived for forty years had emptied itself into the new barn.
Every builder builds somewhat for unknown purposes, and is in a measure a
prophet. The architect of Adoniram Penn's barn, while he designed it for the
comfort of four-footed animals, had planned better than he knew for the comfort
of humans. Sarah Penn saw at a glance its possibilities. Those great box-stalls,
with quilts hung before them, would make better bedrooms than the one she had
occupied for forty years, and there was a tight carriage-room. The harness-room,
with its chimney and shelves, would make a kitchen of her dreams. The great
middle space would make a parlor, by-and-by, fit for a palace. Up stairs there
was as much room as down. With partitions and windows, what a house would there
be! Sarah looked at the row of stanchions before the allotted space for cows,
and reflected that she would have her front entry there.
At six o'clock the stove was up in the harness-room, the kettle was boiling,
and the table set for tea. It looked almost as home-like as the abandoned house
across the yard had ever done. The young hired man milked, and Sarah directed
him calmly to bring the milk to the new barn. He came gaping, dropping little
blots of foam from the brimming pails on the grass. Before the next morning he
had spread the story of Adoniram Penn's wife moving into the new barn all over
the little village. Men assembled in the store and talked it over, women with
shawls over their heads scuttled into each other's houses before their work was
done. Any deviation from the ordinary course of life in this quiet town was
enough to stop all progress in it. Everybody paused to look at the staid,
independent figure on the side track. There was a difference of opinion with
regard to her. Some held her to be insane; some, of a lawless and rebellious
spirit.
Friday the minister went to see her. It was in the forenoon, and she was at
the barn door shelling pease for dinner. She looked up and returned his
salutation with dignity, then she went on with her work. She did not invite him
in. The saintly expression of her face remained fixed, but there was an angry
flush over it.
The minister stood awkwardly before her and talked. She handled the pease as
if they were bullets. At last she looked up, and her eyes showed the spirit that
her meek front had covered for a lifetime.
"There ain't no use talkin', Mr. Hersey," said she. "I've thought it all over
an' over, an' I believe I'm doin' what's right. I've made it the subject of
prayer, an' it's betwixt me an' the Lord an' Adoniram. There ain't no call for
nobody else to worry about it."
"Well, of course if you have brought it to the Lord in prayer

, and feel
satisfied that you are doing right, Mrs. Penn," said the minister, helplessly.
His thin gray-bearded face was pathetic. He was a sickly man; his youthful
confidence had cooled; he had to scourge himself up to some of his pastoral
duties as relentlessly as a Catholic ascetic, and then he was prostrated by the
smart.
"I think it's right jest as much as I think it was right for our forefathers
to come over from the old country 'cause they didn't have what belonged to 'em,"
said Mrs. Penn. She arose. The barn threshold might have been Plymouth Rock from
her bearing. "I don't doubt you mean well, Mr. Hersey," said she, "but there are
things people hadn't ought to interfere with. I've been a member of the church
for over forty year. I've got my own mind an' my own feet, an' I'm goin' to
think my own thoughts an' go my own ways, an' nobody but the Lord is goin' to
dictate to me unless I've a mind to have him. Won't you come in an' set down?
How is Mis' Hersey?"
"She is well, I thank you," replied the minister. He added some more
perplexed apologetic remarks; then he retreated.
He could expound the intricacies of every character study in the Scriptures,
he was competent to grasp the Pilgrim Fathers and all historical innovators, but
Sarah Penn was beyond him. He could deal with primal cases, but parallel ones
worsted him. But, after all, although it






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was aside from his province, he wondered more how Adoniram Penn would deal with
his wife than how the Lord would. Everybody shared the wonder. When Adoniram's
four new cows arrived, Sarah ordered three to be put in the old barn, the other
in the house shed where the cooking-stove had stood. That added to the
excitement. It was whispered that all four cows were domiciled in the house.
Toward sunset on Saturday, when Adoniram was expected home, there was a knot
of men in the road near the new barn. The hired man had milked, but he still
hung around the premises. Sarah Penn had supper all ready. There were
brown-bread and baked beans and a custard pie; it was the supper that Adoniram
loved on a Saturday night. She had on a clean calico, and she bore herself
imperturbably. Nanny and Sammy kept close at her heels. Their eyes were large,
and Nanny was full of nervous tremors. Still there was to them more pleasant
excitement than anything else. An inborn confidence in their mother over their
father asserted itself.
Sammy looked out of the harness-room window. "There he is," he announced, in
an awed whisper. He and Nanny peeped around the casing. Mrs. Penn kept on about
her work. The children watched Adoniram leave the new horse standing in the
drive while he went to the house door. It was fastened. Then he went around to
the shed. That door was seldom locked, even when the family was away. The
thought how her father would be confronted by the cow flashed upon Nanny. There
was a hysterica

l sob in her throat. Adoniram emerged from the shed and stood
looking about in a dazed fashion. His lips moved; he was saying something, but
they could not hear what it was. The hired man was peeping around a corner of
the old barn, but nobody saw him.
Adoniram took the new horse by the bridle and led him across the yard to the
new barn. Nanny and Sammy slunk close to their mother. The barn doors rolled
back, and there stood Adoniram, with the long mild face of the great Canadian
farm horse looking over his shoulder.
Nanny kept behind her mother, but Sammy stepped suddenly forward, and stood
in front of her.
Adoniram stared at the group. "What on airth you all down here for?" said he.
"What's the matter over to the house?"
"We've come here to live, father," said Sammy. His shrill voice quavered out
bravely.
"What" -- Adoniram sniffed -- "what is it smells like cookin'?" said he. He
stepped forward and looked in the open door of the harness-room. Then he turned
to his wife. His old bristling face was pale and frightened. "What on airth does
this mean, mother?" he gasped.
"You come in here, father," said Sarah. She led the way into the harness-room
and shut the door. "Now, father," said she, "you needn't be scared. I ain't
crazy. There ain't nothin' to be upset over. But we've come here to live, an'
we're goin' to live here. We've got jest as good a right here as new horses an'
cows. The house wa'n't fit for us to live in any longer, an' I made up my mind I
wa'n't goin' to stay there. I've done my duty by you forty year, an' I'm goin'
to do it now; but I'm goin' to live here. You've got to put in some windows and
partitions; an' you'll have to buy some furniture."
"Why, mother!" the old man gasped.
"You'd better take your coat off an' get washed -- there's the wash-basin --
an' then we'll have supper."
"Why, mother!"
Sammy went past the window, leading the new horse to the old barn. The old
man saw him, and shook his head speechlessly. He tried to take off his coat, but
his arms seemed to lack the power. His wife helped him. She poured some water
into the tin basin, and put in a piece of soap. She got the comb and brush, and
smoothed his thin gray hair after he had washed. Then she put the beans, hot
bread, and tea on the table. Sammy came in, and the family drew up. Adoniram sat
looking dazedly at his plate, and they waited.
"Ain't you goin' to ask a blessin', father?" said Sarah.
And the old man bent his head and mumbled.
All through the meal he stopped eating at intervals, and stared furtively at
his wife; but he ate well. The home food tasted good to him, and his old frame
was too sturdily healthy to be affected by his mind. But after supper he went
out and sat down on the step of the smaller door at the right of the barn,
through






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which he had meant his Jerseys to pass in stately file, but which S

arah designed
for her front house door, and he leaned his head on his hands.
After the supper dishes were cleared away and the milk-pans washed, Sarah
came out to him. The twilight was deepening. There was a clear green glow in the
sky. Before them stretched the smooth level of field; in the distance was a
cluster of hay-stacks like the huts of a village; the air was very cool and calm
and sweet. The landscape might have been an ideal one of peace.
Sarah bent over and touched her husband on one of his thin, sinewy shoulders.
"Father!"
The old man's shoulders heaved: he was weeping.
"Why, don't do so, father," said Sarah.
"I'll -- put up the -- partitions, an' -- everything you -- want, mother."
Sarah put her apron up to her face; she was overcome by her own triumph.
Adoniram was like a fortress whose walls had no active resistance, and went
down the instant the right besieging tools were used. "Why, mother," he said,
hoarsely, "I hadn't no idee you was so set on't as all this comes to."