The deacon had not returned from his work, and so Wilford did not see him until he came suddenly upon him, seated in the woodshed door, washing his feet after the labor of the day. Ephraim Barlow was a man to command respect, and to a certain extent Wilford recognized the true worth embodied in that unpolished exterior. He did not, however, see much of him that night, for, as the deacon said, apologetically: "The cows is to milk and the chores all to do, for I never keep no boy," and when at last the chores were done the clock pointed to half-past eight, the hour for family worship. Unaccustomed as Wilford was to such things, he felt the influence of the deacon's voice as he read from the Word of God, and involuntarily found himself kneeling when Katy knelt, noticing the deacon's grammar, it is true, but still listening patiently to the rather lengthy prayer which included him as well as the rest of mankind.
There was no chance of seeing Katy alone, and so full two hours before his usual custom Wilford retired to the little room to which the deacon conducted him, saying as he put down the lamp: "You'll find it pretty snug quarters, I guess, for such a close, muggy night as this, but if you can't stand it you must lie on the floor."
And truly they were snug quarters, Wilford thought; but there was no alternative, and a few moments found him in the center of two feather beds, neither Helen nor Katy having discovered the addition made by Aunt Betsy, and which came near being the death of the New York guest, who, wholly unaccustomed to feathers, was almost smothered in them, besides being nearly melted. To sleep was impossible, as the September night was hot and sultry, and never for a moment did Wilford lose his consciousness or forget to accuse himself of being an idiot for coming into that heathenish neighborhood after a wife when at home there were so many girls ready and waiting for him.
"I'll go back to-morrow morning," he said, and, striking a match, he read in his Railway Guide when the first train passed Silverton, feeling comforted to think that only a few hours intervened between him and freedom.
But alas! for Wilford. He was but a man, subject to man's caprices, and when next morning he met Katy Lennox, looking in her light muslin as pure and fair as the white blossoms twined in her wavy hair, his resolution began to waver. Perhaps there was a decent hotel in Silverton; he would inquire of Dr. Grant; at all events he would not take the first train as he had intended doing; and so he stayed, eating fried apples and beefsteak, but forgetting to criticise, in his appreciation of the rich thick cream poured into his coffee, and the sweet, golden butter, which melted in soft waves upon the flakey rolls. Again Uncle Ephraim was absent, having gone to the mill before Wilford left his room, nor was he visible to the young man until after dinner, for Wilford did not go home, but drove instead with Katy in the carriage which Morris sent around, excusing himself from coming on the plea of being too busy, but saying he would join them at tea, if possible. Wilford's mind was not yet fully made up, so he concluded to remain another day and see more of Katy's family. Accordingly, after dinner, he bent his energies to read them all, from Helen down to Aunt Betsy, the latter of whom proved the most transparent of the four. Arrayed again in the pongee, but this time without the hoop, she came into the parlor, bringing her calico patchwork, which she informed him was pieced in the "herrin' bone pattern" and intended for Katy; telling him, further, that the feather bed on which he slept was also a part of "Catherine's setting out," and was made from feathers she picked herself, showing him as proof a mark upon her arm, left there by the gray goose, which had proved a little refractory when she tried to draw a stocking over its head.