black-currant bush was growing on both sides of the fence. Out in the
field below the garden two Bell-pear trees, as large as elms, were
bending their branches, loaded with fruit, a luscious promise for the
autumn-time. A button-pear tree, just beyond, was making up in quantity
what its fruit lacked in quality.

While I was exploring this well-cultivated spot, Mrs. Wetherell called
me to breakfast. The kitchen was a large room, running across one end of
the house; it had four windows in it, two east and two west. All this
space was filled with the fragrance of coffee and cornmeal bannocks.

Mrs. Wetherell said: "I don't know as you will like your coffee
sweetened in the pot, but I always make ours so."

I assured her I should.

During breakfast Mr. Wetherell passed me some cheese, and I asked Mrs.
Wetherell if she made cheese.

"Not this month," she replied, "in July and August I shall. I am packing
butter now."

"Do you think you are going to be contented back here?--you won't see as
much going on as you do at home," Mr. Wetherell asked me.

"O, yes," I answered; "I expect to enjoy myself very much."

Samanthy, the daughter, now well advanced in life, seemed very solemn
and said very little. I wondered if she were sick, or unhappy. A little
later in the day, while I was watching Mrs. Wetherell salt a churning of