It was only natural that Huldah, after her father's death, should
take her mother to her own home. The old Deacon had acquired enough
of this world's goods to avoid the necessity of hard labour during
the last years of his life. Good books had been his constant
companions, and an old-fashioned cane-bottomed rocking chair his
favourite seat upon the piazza or by the kitchen fire. Abner Stiles
had done the necessary farm work and the household chores. When the
Deacon passed away, the town lost one of its broadest-minded, most
honest, most helpful citizens.
Mrs. Mason, still hale and hearty, assisted her daughter in her
household duties, but allowed Abner to put up the clothes line and
take it in.
"And this is his son, and his poor father--" The Deacon's good wife
could say no more, but clasped little Quincy close to her motherly
breast.
"You told me how it happened, Huldy, and I told father, but it don't
seem real even now. His father was such a fine man."
She stopped, for her daughter had turned her head away, and her
mother knew that it was to brush away some tears that could not be
kept back.
To 'Zekiel Pettingill, the boy was Alice's child. His only sister had
been the apple of his eye, and his great, honest heart welcomed the
boy as if he were his own.
His own son, Quincy Adams Pettingill, was in his fourteenth year and
upon him devolved the outdoor education of his young cousin.
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