"Ezra's down cellar sortin' over that bin of peach blows," said Aunt Ann, busy with her mince-me; and chopping-bowl; "they'd started to rot."
"I wanted to send him to the Corners for the mail," suggested Jim Lee, as he kneaded the wax tallow into the instep of his boot to soften the leather.
"You'd better hitch up the colt a mite early," answered
Aunt Ann, "and go to the Corners before we start to the spellin'. Ezra's got to churn as soon; he's done the peachblows."
There was another pause. Jim Lee softly drew on his freshly tallowed boots, and then stood up an tried them by raising his heels one after the other bending the boots at the toes as if testing a couple of Damascus sword blades.
"I don't like this here Ed Church sparkin' our Lide," remarked Jim Lee at last; "bimeby they'll want to get married."
"Father!" said Aunt Ann, raising her blue eyes with a look of cold criticism from the mince-meat she was massacring.
"No, he ain't," replied Aunt Ann, "but he's goin' to."
"How do I know?" repeated Aunt Ann, as she set the chopping-bowl on the kitchen table, and turned to put a few select sticks of maple into the oven to the end that they become kiln-dried and highly inflammable; "how do I know Ed Church is goin' to marry Lide? Humph! I can see it."
"I'm goin' to put a stop to it," said Jim Lee. "This Church boy is goin' to keep away from Lide."
"Father, you're goin' to do nothing of the kind," and Aunt Ann's eyes began to sparkle. "You can run the farm and Ezra, father; I'll run Lide and the house. The only person who's goin' to have a syllable to say about Lide's marryin' when the time comes, is Lide herself. If she wants Ed Church she's goin' to have him."
"Aunt Ann, I'm s'prised at you upholdin' for this Church boy!" Jim Lee threw into his tone a strain of strong reproof. "Ed Church drinks."
"Ed Church don't drink," retorted Aunt Ann sharply.
"How about that time two years ago last summer? Waren't Ed Church drunk over at the Royalton Fair?"
"Yes, he was," answered Aunt Ann, "and that's the only time. But so was my father drunk once at a barn-raisin' when he was a boy, for I've heerd him tell it; and I guess my father, William H. Pickering, was as good as any Lee who ever greased his boots. One swallow don't make a summer, and one drunk don't make a drunkard. Ed Church told me himself that he ain't took a drop since."