THE milk was carried to the pantry and strained; the candles were lighted, and the family sat in a pleasant circle about the kitchen table, while, without, the twilight darkened into night, and the crickets sang. There was Mr. Pipkin showing Phin how to braid a belly into his woodchuck-skin whiplash; Mrs. Pipkin (late Miss Wansey) paring a pan of apples, which she held in her lap; Moses reading the “Saturday Courier,” a popular story-paper in those days; little Kate, sitting on a stool, piecing a bed-quilt under her mother’s eye,—sewing together squares of different colored prints cut out from old dresses, and occasionally looking up to ask the maternal advice,—while Mrs. Chatford was doing some patch-work of a different sort, which certain rents in Phin’s trousers rendered necessary. Jack sat in the corner, silent, and listening for buggy-wheels.