The sun was on our backs, a light breeze fanned us, the horses knew which way they were going, and work for the day was over; so Ma Pettengill spoke, in part, as follows: 

“Oh, well, of course everyone knows about that.  Simple enough!  Aunt Mollie and her first husband trekked in here forty years ago.  He was a consumptive and the first winter put him out.  They had a hard time; no neighbours to speak of, harsh weather, hard work, poor shelter, and a dying man.  Henry Mortimer happened by and stayed to help—­nursed the invalid, kept the few head of stock together, nailed up holes in the shack, rustled grub and acted like a friend in need.  At the last he nailed a coffin together; did the rest of that job; then stayed on to nurse Aunt Mollie, who was all in herself.  After he got her to stepping again he put in a crop for her.  Then he stayed to build a barn and do some fencing.  Then he harvested the crop.  And getting no wages!  They was both living off the land.  Pretty soon they got fond of each other and decided to marry.  It’s one of Aunt Mollie’s jokes that she owed him two years’ wages and had to marry him.

“Marriage was easier said than done.  No preacher, or even a justice of the peace, was within ninety miles, which meant a four days’ trip over the roads of that day, and four days back, providing high water or some other calamity didn’t make it a month; and no one to leave on the place, which meant there wouldn’t be a head of stock left when they got back, what with Indians and rustlers.  Uncle Henry will tell you how it seemed too bad that just one of ’em wouldn’t make the trip down and have the ceremony done, leaving the other to protect the place.

“Then along comes a horse trader, who stops over to rest his stock, and learns their trouble.  He tells ’em to quit their worry; that he’s a notary public and can perform a marriage as good as any Baptist preacher they ever saw.  I never been able to make out whether he was crazy or just a witty, practical joker.  Anyway, he married the pair with something like suitable words, wouldn’t take a cent for it, and gave ’em a paper saying he had performed the deed.  It had a seal on it showing he was a genuine notary public, though from back in Iowa somewhere.  That made no difference to the new bride and groom.  A notary public was a notary public to them, highly important and official.

“They had enough other things to worry about, anyway.  They had to buckle down to the hard life that waits for any young couple without capital in a new country.  They had years of hard sledding; but they must of had a good time somehow, because they never have any but pleasant things to tell of it.  Whatever that notary public was, he seemed to of pulled off a marriage that took as well or better than a great many that may be more legal.  So that’s all there is to it—­only, here about a year ago they was persuaded to have it done proper at last by a real preacher who makes Kulanche two Sundays a month.  That’s why the late date’s on that certificate.  The old lady is right kittenish about that; shows it to everyone, in spite of the fact that it makes her out of been leading an obliquitous life, or something, for about thirty-eight years.