THERE was the usual hustle and bustle in the Condit home one bright Monday morning, and It seemed to Doctor Carter that everywhere he went that particular spot was already occupied by some energetic individual who was performing some household task in the most energetic manner possible. The kitchen floor was being re-sanded by Mehitable, who did not even look up as her parents' guest trod cautiously past her, casting a wistful glance as he did so at the inglenook beyond the pattern the girl was marking so laboriously with her pointed stick. The bench beside the kitchen door where he had enjoyed many quiet, happy hours with book or host since his arrival from Newark the week before was now hidden by two steaming wooden washtubs, presided over by Mistress Condit. Even the circular seat built around an old apple tree down near the gate was being used, for there Charity had spread her primer and her sewing materials and her own dainty self. No one, beyond Mistress Condit, who vouchsafed an absent smile, paid the least attention to the embarrassed doctor, who at last, book in hand, tramped off toward the great stock barn.
