There were
Young Nick and his Hattie, living in the big new house, with its
spacious piazza and cool green blinds; there the two daughters were
born and bred, and the elder of them was married. The new house had its
hired girl and man; and meantime the other Nicholas (nobody ever
dreamed of calling him Old Nick) was cooking his own meals, and even,
of a Saturday, scouring his kitchen floor. It was easy to see in him
the pathetic symbol of a bygone generation relegated to the past. A
little wave of sympathy crept to his very feet, and then, finding
itself unnoted, ebbed away again. Only one village censor dared speak,
saying slyly to Young Nick's Hattie:--
"Ain't no room for grandpa in the new house, is there?"
Hattie opened her eyes wide at this discovery, though now she realized
that echoes of a like benevolence had reached her ears before. She went
home very early from the quilting, and that night she said to her
husband, as they sat on the doorstone, waiting for the milk to cool:--
"Nicholas, little things I've got hold of, first an' last, make me
conclude folks pity father. Do you s'pose they do?"
Young Nick selected a fat plantain spike, and began stripping the
seeds.
"Well, I dunno what for," said he, after consideration.
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