As he moved along his eyes rested upon a little cottage away to the right,
nestling near a grove of large maple trees. Old Henry Burchill, the
wood-chopper, lived there. Farrington's brows knitted as he thought of
him. Would he sign the paper? He knew that Henry was once opposed to the
parson for introducing certain things into the church. But then that was
long ago, and he wondered how the old man felt now. Anyway there was that
unpaid bill at the store. It would have some weight, and it was no harm to
try.
Mrs. Burchill was at home, and was surprised to see the storekeeper enter
the house. She was a quiet, reserved woman, who mingled little with her
neighbours. The lines of care upon her face, the bent back and the
toil-worn hands told their own tale of a long, hard battle for life's bare
necessities. Her heart beat fast as she shook hands with her visitor, for
she, too, thought of that bill at the store, which she and her husband had
been bravely striving to pay.
"Is yer husband at home, Mrs. Burchill?" asked Farrington, seating himself
on a splint-bottomed chair.
"No, sir. He's in the woods chopping for Stephen.
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