Her own reflected it.
"Where are they, gran'ther?" asked Mary. But she was the more excited;
she could only whisper.
"They're loose sheets o' paper," returned Nicholas, "an' _they 're in
my bag_!"
Mary made an involuntary movement toward the bag, which lay, innocently
secretive, on a neighboring chair. Even its advertising legend had a
knowing look. Nicholas followed her glance.
"No," said he firmly, "not now. We'll read 'em all over this evenin',
when I've done the dishes. But, Mary, I'll tell ye this much: it's got
the whole story of the settlers comin' into town, an' which way they
come, an' all about it, writ down by Simeon Gerry, the fust minister,
the one that killed five Injuns, stoppin' to load an' fire, an' then
opened on the rest with bilin' fat. An', Mary, the fust settler of all
was Nicholas Oldfield, haulin' his wife on a kind of a drag made o'
withes; an' the path they took led straight over our Flat-Iron Lot.
An', Mary, 't was there they rested, an' offered up prayer to God."
"O my soul, gran'ther!" breathed Mary, clasping her little brown hands.
"O my soul!" Her face grew curiously mature. It seemed to mirror his.
She leaned forward, in a deadly earnestness. "Gran'ther," said she,
"did they settle here first? Or--or was it Sudleigh?"
Now, indeed, was Nicholas Oldfield the herald of news good both to tell
and hear.
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