Mrs. Gibson, the wife of the comparatively new elder of the Sabbath
Valley church was a semi-invalid. That is she wasn't able to do her own
work and kept "help." The help was a lady of ample proportions whose
husband had died and whose fortunes were depleted. She consented to
assist Mrs. Gibson provided she were considered one of the family, and
she presented a continual front of offense so that the favored family
must walk most circumspectly if they would not have her retire to her
room with hurt feelings and leave them to shift for themselves.
On the morning of the trial she settled herself at her side of the
breakfast table, after a number of excursions to the kitchen for things
she had forgotten, the cream, the coffee, and the brown bread, of which
Mr. Gibson was very fond. She was prepared to enjoy her own breakfast.
Mr. Gibson generally managed to bolt his while these excursions of
memory were being carried on and escape the morning news, but Mrs.
Gibson, well knowing which side her bread was buttered, and not knowing
where she could get another housekeeper, usually managed to sit it out.
"Well, this is a great day for Sabbath Valley," said Mrs. Frost
mournfully, spreading an ample slice of bread deep with butter, and
balancing it on the uplifted fingers of one hand while she stirred the
remainder of the cream into her coffee with one of the best silver
spoons. She was wide and bulgy and her chair always seemed inadequate
when she settled thus for nourishment.
"A great day," she repeated sadly, taking an audible sip of her coffee.
"A great day?" repeated little Mrs. Gibson with a puzzled air, quickly
recalling her abstracted thoughts.
"Yes. Nobody ever thought anybody in Sabbath Valley would ever be tried
for murder!"
"Oh!" said Mrs. Gibson sharply, drawing back her chair as if she were
in a hurry and rolling up her napkin quickly.
"Yes, poor Mark Carter! I remember his sweet little face and his long
yellow curls and his baby smile as if it were yesterday!" narrowing her
eyes and harrowing her voice, "I wonder if his poor mother knows yet."
"I should hope not!" said Mrs. Gibson rising precipitately and
wandering over to the window where hung a gilded canary cage. "Mrs.
Frost, did you remember to give the canary some seed and fresh water?"
"Yes, I b'lieve so," responded the fat lady, "But you can't keep her
from knowing it always. Whatt'll you do when he's hung? Don't
you think it would be easier for; her to get used to it little by
little?"