"Yes," Maxwell replied, "people live more natural and healthful lives in the country. The advantages of the city aren't an unmixed blessing."

"That's true enough. That's no way to live. Just think of havin' no yard but a window box and a fire escape! I'd smother!

"We folks out here in the country 'aint enjoyin' a lot of the refinements of city life; anyhow we get along, and the funny part about it is,—it 'aint hard to do, either. In the first place we 'aint so particular, which helps a lot, and besides, as Jonathan Jackson used to say,—there's compensations. I had one look at Fifth Avenue and I'm not sayin' it wasn't all I had heard it was; but if I had to look at it three hundred and sixty-five days a year I wouldn't trade it for this.

"Why, some days it rains up here, but I can sit at my window and look down the valley, to where the creek runs through, and 'way up into the timber, and the sight of all those green things, livin' and noddin' in the rain is a long ways from being disheartenin',—and when the sun shines I can sit out here, in my garden, with my flowers, and watch the boys playin' down in the meadow, Bascom's Holsteins grazin' over there on the hill, and the air full of the perfume of growin' things,—they 'aint got anything like that, in New York."

For a time Mrs. Burke relapsed into silence, while Maxwell smoked his briar pipe as he lay on the grass near by. She realized that the parson had cleverly side-tracked her original subject of conversation, and as she glanced down at him she shook her head with droll deprecation of his guile.

When she first accused him of the blues, it was true that Maxwell's look had expressed glum depression. Now, he was smiling, and, balked of her prey, Mrs. Burke knitted briskly, contemplating other means drawing him from his covert. Her strategy had been too subtle: she would try a frontal attack.

"Ever think of gettin' married, Mr. Maxwell?" she inquired abruptly.

For an instant Maxwell colored; but he blew two or three rings of smoke in the air, and then replied carelessly, as he plucked at the grass by his side:

"Oh, yes: every fellow of my age has fancied himself in love some time or other, I suppose."

"Yes, it's like measles, or whoopin'-cough; every man has to have it sometime; but you haven't answered my question."

"Well, suppose I was in love; a man must be pretty conceited to imagine that he could make up to a girl for the sacrifice of bringing her to live in a place like Durford. That sounds horribly rude to Durford, but you won't misunderstand me."

"No; I know exactly how you feel; but the average girl is just dyin' to make a great sacrifice for some good-lookin' young fellow, all the same."

"Ah yes; the average girl; but——"

Maxwell's voice trailed off into silence, while he affected to gaze stonily into the blue deeps of the sky overhead.

Hepsey had thought herself a pretty clever fisherman, in her day; evidently, she decided, this particular fish was not going to be easy to land.

"Don't you think a clergyman is better off married?" she asked, presently.

Donald knocked the ashes out of his pipe and put it in his pocket, clasped his hands across his knees, and smiled thoughtfully for a moment. There was a light in his eyes which was good to see, and a slight trembling of his lips before he ventured to speak. Then he sighed heavily.

"Yes, I do, on many accounts. But I think that any parson in a place like this ought to know and face all the difficulties of the situation before he comes to a definite decision and marries. Isn't that your own view? You've had experience of married parsons here: what do you think?"

"Well, you see the matter is just like this: Every parish wants an unmarried parson; the vestry 'cause he's cheap, every unmarried woman 'cause he may be a possible suitor; and it's easier to run him than it is a married man. He may be decent, well-bred and educated. And he comes to a parcel of ignoramuses who think they know ten times as much as he does. If he can't earn enough to marry on, and has the good sense to keep out of matrimony, the people talk about his bein' a selfish old bachelor who neglects his duty to society. He can't afford to run a tumble-down rectory like ours. If in the face of all this he marries, he has to scrimp and stint until it is a question of buyin' one egg or two, and lettin' his wife worry and work until she's fit for a lunatic asylum. No business corporation, not even a milk-peddlin' trust, would treat its men so or expect good work from 'em. Then the average layman seldom thinks how he can help the parson. His one idea is to be a kicker as long as he can think of anything to kick about. The only man in this parish who never kicks is paralyzed in both legs. Yes sir; the parson of the country parish is the parish goat, as the sayin' is."

Mrs. Burke ceased her tirade, and after a while Maxwell remarked quietly:

"Mrs. Burke, I'm afraid you are a pessimist."

"I'm no such thing," she retorted hotly. "A pessimist's a man that sees nothin' but the bad, and says there's no help for it and won't raise a hand: he's a proper sour-belly. An optimist's a man that sees nothin' but the good, and says everything's all right; let's have a good time. Poor fool! The practical man—anyway, the practical woman—sees both the bad and the good, and says we can make things a whole lot better if we try; let's take off our coats and hustle to beat the cars, and see what happens. The real pessimists are your Bascoms, and that kind: and I guess I pity him more than blame him: he seems as lonesome as a tooth-pick in a cider-barrel."

"But I thought that Bascom was a wealthy man. He ought to be able to help out, and raise money enough so that the town could keep a parson and his wife comfortably."

"Sure thing! But the church isn't supported by tight-fisted wealthy people. It's the hard-workin' middle class who are willin' to turn in and spend their last cent for the church. And don't you get me started on Bascom as you value your life. Maybe I'll swear a blue streak before I get through: not but what I suppose that even Bascom has his good points—like a porcupine. But a little emery paper on Bascom's good points wouldn't hurt 'em very much. They're awful rusty."

"Oh well! Money isn't all there is in life," soothed Maxwell, smiling.

"No, not quite; but it's a mighty good thing to have in the house. You'd think so if you had to wear the same hat three summers. I've got to that time in my life where I can get along very well without most of the necessities; but I must have a few luxuries to keep me goin'."

"Then you think that a clergyman ought not to marry and bring his wife to a place like Durford?"

"I didn't say anything of the sort. If you was to get married I'd see you through, if it broke my neck or Bascom's."

"Do you know, you seem to me a bit illogical?" remarked Maxwell mildly.

"Don't talk to me about logic! The strongest argument is often the biggest lie. There are times in your life when you have to take your fate in both hands and shut your eyes, and jump in the dark. Maybe you'll land on your feet, and maybe you—won't. But you have got to jump just the same. That's matrimony—common sense, idiocy, or whatever you choose to call it.... I never could tell which. It's the only thing to do; and any man with a backbone and a fist won't hesitate very long. If you marry, I'll see you through; though of course you won't stay here long, anyhow."

"You're awfully kind, Mrs. Burke," Maxwell replied, "and I sha'n't forget your promise—when the time comes for me to take the momentous step. But I think it would be the wisest thing for me to keep my heart free for a while; or at any rate, not to get married."

Mrs. Burke looked down at her rector, and smiled broadly at his clever evasion of the bait she had dangled before him so persistently.

"Well, do as you like; but that reminds me that when next you go to town you'll need to get a new glass for that miniature of your sister. You must have dozed off with it in your hands last night and dropped it. I found it this morning on the floor alongside of your chair, with the glass broken."

She rose triumphantly, as she knitted the last stitch of the wash-rag. "Excuse me—I must go and peel the potatoes for dinner."

"I'd offer to contribute to the menu, by catching some fish for you; but I don't think it's a very good day for fishing, is it, Mrs. Burke?" asked Maxwell innocently.



CHAPTER VIII

AN ICEBOX FOR CHERUBIM

As we have seen, when Maxwell began his work in Durford, he was full of the enthusiasm of youth and inexperience. He was, however, heartily supported and encouraged in his efforts by all but Sylvester Bascom. Without being actively and openly hostile, the Senior Warden, under the guise of superior wisdom and a judicial regard for expediency, managed to thwart many of his projects. After each interview with Bascom, Maxwell felt that every bit of life and heart had been pumped out of him, and that he was very young, and very foolish to attempt to make any change in "the good old ways" of the parish, which for so many years had stunted its growth and had acquired the immobility of the laws of the Medes and Persians.

But there was one parishioner who was ever ready to suggest new ventures to "elevate" the people, and to play the part of intimate friend and adviser to her good-looking rector, and that was Virginia Bascom. For some unknown reason "the people" did not seem to be acutely anxious thus to be elevated; and most of them seemed to regard Virginia as a harmless idiot with good intentions, but with positive genius for meddling in other people's affairs. Being the only daughter of the Senior Warden, and the leading lady from a social standpoint, she considered that she had a roving commission to set people right at a moment's notice; and there were comparatively few people in Durford on whom she had not experimented in one way or another. She organized a Browning club to keep the factory girls out of the streets evenings, a mothers' meeting, an ethical culture society, and a craftman's club, and, as she was made president of each, her time was quite well filled.

And now in her fertile brain dawned a brilliant idea, which she proceeded to propound to the rector. Maxwell was non-committal, for he felt the matter was one for feminine judgment. Then she decided to consult Mrs. Burke—because, while Hepsey was "not in society," she was recognized as the dominant personality among the women of the village, and no parish enterprise amounted to much unless she approved of it, and was gracious enough to assist. As Virginia told Maxwell, "Mrs. Burke has a talent of persuasiveness," and so was "useful in any emergency." If Mrs. Burke's sympathies could be enlisted on behalf of the new scheme it would be bound to succeed.

As a matter of fact, Mrs. Burke had heard rumors of this new project of Virginia's. It always went against the grain with Hepsey to say: "Don't do it." She was a firm believer in the teaching of experience: "Experience does it," was her translation of the classic adage.

And so one morning found Virginia sitting opposite Mrs. Burke in the kitchen at Thunder Cliff, knitting her brows and poking the toe of her boot with the end of her parasol in an absent-minded way. This was symptomatic.

"Anything on your mind, Virginia? What's up now?" Mrs. Burke began.

For a moment Virginia hesitated, and then replied:

"I am thinking of establishing a day-nursery to care for the babies of working women, Mrs. Burke."

Mrs. Burke, with hands on her hips, gazed intently at her visitor, pushed up her under lip, scowled, and then observed thoughtfully:

"I wonder some one hasn't thought of that before. Who's to take care of the babies?"

"Mary Quinn and I, with the assistance of others, of course."

"Are you sure that you know which is the business end of a nursing-bottle? Could you put a safety-pin where it would do the most good? Could you wash a baby without drownin' it?"

"Of course I have not had much experience," Virginia replied in a dignified and lofty way, "but Mary Quinn has, and she could teach me."

"You're thinkin', I suppose, that a day-nursery would fill a long-felt want, or somethin' like that. Who's goin' to pay the bills?"

"Oh, there ought to be enough progressive, philanthropic people in Durford to subscribe the necessary funds, you know. It is to be an auxiliary to the parish work."

"Hm! What does Mr. Maxwell say?"

"Well, he said that he supposed that babies were good things in their way; but he hadn't seen many in the village, and he didn't quite realize what help a day-nursery would be to the working women."

"That doesn't sound mighty enthusiastic. Maybe we might get the money; but who's to subscribe the babies?"

"Why, the working women, of course."

"They can't subscribe 'em if they haven't got 'em. There are mighty few kids in this town; and if you really want my candid opinion, I don't think Durford needs a day-nursery any more than it needs an icebox for cherubim. But then of course that doesn't matter much. When you goin' to begin?"

"Next Monday. We have rented the store where Elkin's grocery used to be, and we are going to fit it up with cribs, and all the most up-to-date conveniences for a sanitary day-nursery."

"Hm! Well, I'll do all I can to help you, of course. I suppose you'll find babies pushin' all over the sidewalk Monday mornin', comin' early to avoid the rush. Better get down as early as possible, Virginia."

Virginia departed.

After the furnishing of the incipient nursery had been completed, and each little crib had a new unbreakable doll whose cheeks were decorated with unsuckable paint, Virginia and Mary Quinn—invaluable in undertaking the spadework of all Virginia's parish exploits—gave an afternoon tea to which all the subscribers and their friends were invited. But when everything was in readiness for patronage, what few working women there were in Durford, possessed of the right kind of babies, seemed strangely reluctant to trust their youthful offspring to the tender mercies of Virginia Bascom and Mary Quinn.

Consequently, the philanthropic movement, started under such favorable patronage, soon reached a critical stage in its career, and Mrs. Burke was called in to contribute some practical suggestions. She responded to the summons with all due promptness, and when she arrived at the nursery, she smilingly remarked:

"Hm! But where are the babies? I thought they would be swarming all over the place like tadpoles in a pool."

"Well, you see," Virginia began, her voice quivering with disappointment, "Mary Quinn and I have been sitting here four mortal days, and not a single infant has appeared on the scene. I must say that the working women of Durford seem strangely unappreciative of our efforts to help them."

"Well," Mrs. Burke responded, "I suppose day-nurseries without babies are as incomplete as an incubator without eggs. But after all, it hardly seems worth while to go out and snatch nursing infants from their mother's breasts just to fill a long-felt want, does it? Besides, you might get yourself into trouble."

"I didn't ask you to come and make fun of me," Virginia replied touchily. "I wanted you to make some suggestions to help us out. If we don't get any babies, we might just as well close our doors at once. I should be awfully mortified to have the whole thing a failure, after all we have done, and all the advertising we have had."

Mrs. Burke sat down and assumed a very judicial expression.

"Well, Ginty dear, I'm awful sorry for you; I don't doubt you done the best you could. It'd be unreasonable to expect you to collect babies like mushrooms in a single night. All true reformers are bound to strike snags, and to suffer because they aint appreciated in their own day and generation. It's only after we are gone and others take our places that the things we do are appreciated. You'll have to resign yourself to fate, Virginia, and wait for what the newspapers call 'the vindicatin' verdict of prosperity.' Think of all the people that tried to do things and didn't do 'em. Now there's the Christian martyrs——"

For some reason Virginia seemed to have a vague suspicion that Hepsey was still making fun of her; and being considerably nettled, she interjected tartly:

"I'm not working for the verdict of posterity, and I don't care a flip for the Christian martyrs. I'm trying to conduct a day-nursery, here and now; we have the beds, and the equipment, and some money, and——"

"But you haven't got the babies, Virginia!"

"Precisely, Mrs. Burke. It's simply a question of babies, now or never. Babies we must have or close our doors. I must confess that I am greatly pained at the lack of interest of the community in our humble efforts to serve them."

For some time Hepsey sat in silence; then she smiled as if a bright idea occurred to her.

"Why not borrow a few babies from the mothers in town, Virginia? You see, you might offer to pay a small rental by the hour, or take out a lease which could be renewed when it expired. What is lacking is public confidence in your enterprise. If you and Miss Quinn could be seen in the nursery windows dandlin' a baby on each arm, and singin' lullabies to 'em for a few days, it'd attract attention, inspire faith in the timid, and public confidence would be restored. The tide of babies'd turn your way after a while, and the nursery would prove a howlin' success."

Virginia considered the suggestion and, after deep thought, remarked:

"What do you think we ought to pay for the loan of a baby per hour, Mrs. Burke?"

"Well, of course I haven't had much experience rentin' babies, as I have been busy payin' taxes and insurance on my own for some years; then you see rents have gone up like everything lately. But I should think that ten cents an afternoon ought to be sufficient. I think I might be able to hunt up a baby or two. Mrs. Warren might lend her baby, and perhaps Mrs. Fletcher might add her twins. I'll call on them at once, if you say so."

Virginia looked relieved, and in a voice of gratitude responded:

"You are really very, very kind."

"Well, cheer up, Virginia; cheer up. Every cloud has its silver linin'; and I guess we can find some babies somewhere even if we have to advertise in the papers. Now I must be goin', and I'll stop on the way and make a bid for the Fletcher twins. Good-by."

When Nicholas Burke learned from his mother of the quest of the necessary babies, he started out of his own motion and was the first to arrive on the scene with the spoils of victory, in the shape of the eighteen-months infant of Mrs. Thomas McCarthy, for which he had been obliged to pay twenty-five cents in advance, the infant protesting vigorously with all the power of a well developed pair of lungs. As Nickey delivered the goods, he remarked casually:

"Say, Miss Virginia, you just take the darn thing quick. He's been howlin' to beat the band."

"Why, Nickey," exclaimed Virginia, entranced, and gingerly possessing herself of James McCarthy, "however did you get him?"

"His ma wouldn't let me have him at first; and it took an awful lot of jollyin' to bring her round. Of course I didn't mean to tell no lies, but I said you was awful fond of kids. I said that if you only had Jimmy, it would give the nursery a dandy send-off, 'cause she was so well known, and Mr. McCarthy was such a prominent citizen. When she saw me cough up a quarter and play with it right under her nose, I could see she was givin' in; and she says to me, 'Nickey, you can take him just this once. I'd like to help the good cause along, and Miss Bascom, she means well.' Ma's gettin' after the Fletcher twins for you."

James McCarthy was welcomed with open arms, was washed and dressed in the most approved antiseptic manner; his gums were swabed with boracic acid, and he was fed from a sterilized bottle on Pasteurized milk, and tucked up in a crib with carbolized sheets, and placed close to the window where he could bask in actinic rays, and inhale ozone to his heart's content. Thus the passer-by could see at a glance that the good work had begun to bear fruit.

Mrs. Burke managed to get hold of the Fletcher twins, and as they both howled lustily in unison, all the time, they added much to the natural domesticity of the scene and seemed to invite further patronage, like barkers at a side-show. Mrs. Warren was also persuaded.

Although the village was thoroughly canvassed, Miss Bascom was obliged to content herself with the McCarthy baby and the Fletcher twins, and the Warren baby, until, one morning, a colored woman appeared with a bundle in her arms. As she was the first voluntary contributor of live stock, she was warmly welcomed, and a great fuss made over the tiny black infant which gradually emerged from the folds of an old shawl "like a cuckoo out of its cocoon," as Mary Quinn remarked. This, of course, was very nice and encouraging, but most unfortunately, when night came, the mother did not appear to claim her progeny, nor did she ever turn up again. Of course it was a mere oversight on her part, but Virginia was much disturbed, for, to her very great embarrassment, she found herself the undisputed possessor of a coal black baby. She was horrified beyond measure, and sent at once for Mrs. Burke.

"What shall I do, what shall I do, Mrs. Burke?" she cried. Mrs. Burke gazed musingly at the writhing black blot on the white and rose blanket, and suggested:

"Pity you couldn't adopt it, Virginia. You always loved children."

"Adopt it!" Virginia screamed hysterically. "What in the world can you be thinking of?"

"Well, I can't think of anything else, unless I can persuade Andy Johnston, the colored man on the farm, to adopt it. He wouldn't mind its complexion as much as you seem to."

Virginia brightened considerably at this suggestion, exclaiming excitedly:

"Oh Mrs. Burke, do you really think you could?"

"Well, I don't know. Perhaps so. At any rate, if we offer to help pay the extra expense, Mrs. Johnston might bring the baby up as her own. Then they can name it Virginia Bascom Johnston, you see."

Virginia bit her lip, but she managed to control her temper as she exclaimed quite cheerfully:

"Mrs. Burke, you are so very kind. You are always helping somebody out of a scrape."

"Don't overpraise me, Virginia. My head's easily turned. The teachin's of experience are hard—but I guess they're best in the end. Well, send the poor little imp of darkness round to me to-night, and I'll see that it has good care."

As a matter of fact, Hepsey had qualms of conscience as to whether she should not, at the outset, have discouraged the whole baby project; experience threatened to give its lesson by pretty hard knocks, on this occasion.

For though the immediate problem was thus easily solved, others presented themselves to vex the philanthropic Virginia.

When on the tenth day the rental for the Warren baby and the Fletcher twins fell due, and the lease of James McCarthy expired without privilege of renewal, the finances of the nursery were at a very low ebb. It certainly did not help matters much when, towards night, Mary Quinn called Virginia's attention to the fact that there were unmistakable signs of a bad rash on the faces of the twins, and very suspicious spots on the cheeks of the Warren baby. Even the antiseptic James McCarthy blushed like a boiled lobster, and went hopelessly back on his sterilized character. Of course the only thing to be done was to send at once for the doctor, and for the mothers of the respective infants. When the doctor arrived he pronounced the trouble to be measles; and when the mothers made their appearance, Virginia learned something of the unsuspected resources of the English language served hot from the tongues of three frightened and irate women. Finally the floor was cleared, and the place closed up for disinfection.

Just before she left, Virginia dropped into a chair and wept, quite oblivious of the well-meant consolations of Mary Quinn, sometime co-partner in "The Durford Day-Nursery for the Children of Working Women."

"We've done the very best we could, Miss Bascom; and it certainly isn't our fault that the venture turned out badly. Poor babies!"

At this the sobbing Virginia was roused to one last protest:

"Mary Quinn, if ever you say another word to me about babies, I'll have you arrested. I just hate babies, and—and everything! Why, there comes Mr. Maxwell! Say, Mary, you just run and get me a wet towel to wipe my face with, while I hunt for my combs and do up my back hair. And then if you wouldn't mind vanishing for a while—I'm sure you understand—for if ever I needed spiritual consolation and the help of the church, it is now, this minute."



CHAPTER IX

THE RECTORY

A few weeks after Donald's conversational duel with Mrs. Burke he started on a six-weeks' vacation, which he had certainly earned; and as he busied himself with his packing,—Hepsey assisting,—he announced:

"When I come back, Mrs. Burke, I probably shall not come alone."

He was strapping up his suit-case when he made this rather startling announcement, and the effect seemed to send the blood to his head. Mrs. Burke did not seem to notice his confusion as she remarked calmly:

"Hm! That's a good thing. Your grandmother can have the room next to yours, and we'll do all we can to make the old lady comfortable. I'm sure she'll be a great comfort to you, though she'll get a bit lonesome at times, unless she's active on her feet."

Donald laughed, as he blushed more furiously and stuttered:

"No, I am not going to bring my grandmother here, and I strongly suspect that you know what I mean. I'm going to be married."

"So you are going to get married, are you?" Hepsey remarked with due amazement, as if the suspicion of the fact had never entered her head before. "Well, I am mighty glad of it. I only wish that I was goin' to be present to give you away. Yes, I'm mighty glad. She'll make a new man of you up here, so long as she isn't a new woman."

"No, not in the slang sense of the word; although I think you will find her very capable, and I hope with all my heart that you'll like her."

"I'm sure I shall. The question is whether she'll like me."

Hepsey Burke looked rather sober for a moment, and Donald instantly asserted:

"She can't help liking you."

"We-ell now, I could mention quite a number of people who find it as easy as rolling off a log to dislike, me. But that doesn't matter much. I have found it a pretty good plan not to expect a great deal of adoration, and to be mighty grateful for the little you get. Be sure you let me know when to expect you and your grandmother back."

"Most certainly I shall," he laughed. "It will be in about six weeks, you know. Good-by, and thank you a thousand times for all your kindness to me."

There was considerable moisture in Hepsey's eyes as she stood and watched Maxwell drive down the road. Then wiping her eyes furtively with one corner of her apron she remarked to herself:

"Well, I suppose I am glad, mighty glad; but somehow it isn't the jolliest thing in the world to have one's friends get married. They are never the same again; and in ten times out of six the lady in the case is jealous of her husband's friends, and tries to make trouble. It takes a lady saint to share her husband's interests with anybody, and maybe she 'aint to blame. Well, the next thing in order is to fix up the rectory in six weeks. The best way to repair that thing is with a match and some real good kerosene and a few shavings; however, we'll have to do the best we can. I think I'll set Jonathan Jackson to work this afternoon, and go around and interview the vestry myself."

Jonathan proved resignedly obedient to Hepsey's demands, but the vestry blustered and scolded, because they had not been consulted in the matter, until Hepsey said she would be glad to receive any contribution they might choose to offer; then they relapsed into innocuous desuetude and talked crops.

As soon as the repairs were well under way, the whole town was wild with gossip about Maxwell and Miss Bascom. If he were going to occupy the rectory, the necessary inference was that he was going to be married, as he surely would not contemplate keeping bachelor's hall by himself. At last Virginia had attained the height of her ambition and captured the rector! Consequently she was the center of interest in every social gathering, although, as the engagement had not been formally announced, no one felt at liberty to congratulate her. To any tentative and insinuating advances in this direction Virginia replied by non-committal smiles, capable of almost any interpretation; and the seeker after information was none the wiser.

Mrs. Roscoe-Jones, by virtue of her long intimacy with Hepsey and her assured social position in Durford's thirty gentry, felt that she was entitled to some definite information; and so, as they walked back from church one Wednesday afternoon, she remarked:

"I hear that the parish is going to repair the rectory, and that you are taking a great interest in it. You must be on very intimate terms with Mr. Bascom and the vestry!"

"Well, not exactly. Bascom and I haven't held hands in the dark for some time; but I am going to do what I can to get the house in order for Mr. Maxwell."

"I wonder where the money is coming from to complete the work? It seems to me that the whole parish ought to be informed about the matter, and share in the work; but I suppose Mr. Bascom's shouldering it all, since there's been no effort to raise money by having a fair."

"I really don't know much about it as yet, Sarah. Of course Bascom's charitable work is mostly done in secret, so that nobody ever finds it out. He is a modest man and wouldn't like to be caught in the act of signing a check for anybody else. It might seem showy."

"Yes, I understand," Mrs. Roscoe-Jones retorted dryly; "but under the circumstances, that is——"

"Under what circumstances?" Mrs. Burke inquired quickly.

"Oh, considering that Mr. Bascom is Virginia's father and would want to make her comfortable, you know——"

"No, I don't know. I'm awful stupid about some things. You must have discovered that before."

"Now Hepsey, what is the use of beating around the bush like this? You must know the common gossip of the town, and you must be in Mr. Maxwell's confidence. What shall I say when people ask me if he is engaged to Virginia Bascom?"

"Tell 'em you don't know a blessed thing about it. What else can you tell 'em? You might tell 'em that you tried to pump me and the pump wouldn't work 'cause it needed packin'."

After this, Mrs. Roscoe-Jones felt that there was nothing left for her to do but retire from the scene; so she crossed the road.

When Mrs. Burke began the actual work on the rectory she quickly realized what she had to cope with. The workmen of Durford had a pleasing habit of accepting all offers of work, and promising anything, and making a start so as to get the job; and then, having upset the whole premises, they promptly "lit out" for parts unknown in order to get another job, and no mortal knew when they would return. It always seemed promising and hopeful to see a laboring man arrive in his overalls with his dinner-pail and tools at seven; but when two hours later he had vanished, not to return, it was a bit discouraging. Mrs. Burke was not in a very good humor when, arriving at the rectory, she met Tom Snyder the plumber, at ten-thirty, walking briskly away from his job. She planted herself squarely across the walk and began:

"Good morning, Thomas; where are you going, if I may ask?"

"I am going back for my tools, Mrs. Burke."

"Excuse me, Thomas, but you were never more mistaken in your life. You put the kitchen pipes out of business two weeks ago, and you must have been goin' back for your tools ever since. I suppose you're chargin' me by the hour for goin' backwards."

Thomas looked sheepish and scratched his head with his dirty fingers.

"No, but I have to finish a little job I begun for Elias Warden on the hill. I'll be back again right away."

"None of that, Thomas. You're goin' back to the rectory with me now, and if the job isn't finished by six o'clock, you'll never get your hands on it again."

The crestfallen Thomas reluctantly turned around and accompanied Hepsey back to the rectory and finished his work in half an hour.

After much trial and tribulation the rectory was duly repaired, replastered, and papered. The grass had been cut; the bushes were trimmed; and the house had been painted. Then Mrs. Burke obtained a hayrack with a team, and taking Nickey and Jonathan Jackson with her, made a tour of the parish asking for such furniture as individual parishioners were willing to give. Late in the afternoon she arrived at the rectory with a very large load, and the next day Jonathan was made to set to work with his tools, and she started in with some paint and varnish, and the result seemed eminently satisfactory to her, even though her hands were stained, she had had no dinner, and her hair was stuck to her head here and there in shiny spots. As they were leaving the house to return home for supper, she scowled severely at Jonathan as she remarked:

"Jonathan, I do believe you've got more red paint on the top of your head than you left on the kitchen chairs. Do for mercy sake wash the end of your nose. I don't care to be seen comin' out of here with you lookin' like that," she added scathingly.

After that, it was, as Mrs. Burke remarked, just fun to finish the rectory; and though so much had been given by the people of the parish, there were many new pieces of furniture delivered, for which no one could account. As neither Mr. Bascom nor Miss Bascom had sent anything, and as neither had appeared on the scene, excitement was at fever heat. Rumor had it that Virginia had gone to the city for a week or so, to buy her trousseau. Presently the report circulated that Maxwell was going to bring his bride back with him when he returned from his vacation.

The day before the one set for Maxwell's arrival Mrs. Burke confessed the truth, and suggested that the rectory be stocked with provisions, so that the bride and groom should have something to eat when they first got home. The idea seemed to please the parish, and provisions began to arrive and were placed in the cellar, or on the newly painted pantry shelves, or in the neat cupboards. Mrs. Talbot sent a bushel of potatoes, Mrs. Peterson a pan of soda biscuit, Mrs. Andrews two loaves of bread; Mrs. Squires donated a pan of soda biscuit, Mrs. Johnson some frosted cake, and Mrs. Marlow two bushels of apples. Mrs. Hurd sent a pan of soda biscuit, Mrs. Waldorf three dozen eggs, and a sack of flour; Mrs. Freyburg sent a pan of soda biscuit, Mrs. Jones a boiled ham, Mrs. Orchardson two bushels of turnips and half a pan of soda biscuit.

Mrs. Burke received the provisions as they arrived, and put them where they belonged. Just about supper time Mrs. Loomis came with a large bundle under her arm and remarked to Hepsey:

"I thought I'd bring something nobody else would think of—something out of the ordinary that perhaps Mr. and Mrs. Maxwell would relish."

"I'm sure that was real thoughtful of you, Mrs. Loomis," Hepsey replied. "What have you got?"

"Well," Mrs. Loomis responded, "I thought I'd bring 'em two pans of my nice fresh soda biscuit."

Mrs. Burke kept her face straight, and responded cheerfully:

"That was awful nice of you, Mrs. Loomis."

"Oh, that's all right. And if you want any more, just let me know."

Finally, when the door was closed on the last contributor, Mrs. Burke dropped into a chair and called:

"Jonathan Jackson, come here quick."

Jonathan responded promptly, and anxiously inquired:

"Hepsey, be you ill?"

"No, I'm not sick; but we have ten pans of soda biscuit. They are in the pantry, down cellar, in the woodshed, on the parlor table. For mercy's sake take eight pans out to the chickens or stick 'em on the picket fence. I just loathe soda biscuit; and if any more come I shall throw 'em at the head of the woman that brings 'em."



CHAPTER X

THE BRIDE'S ARRIVAL

Next morning, when Nickey brought up the mail, Mrs. Burke looked anxiously over her letters until she came to the one she was expecting. She read it in silence.

The gist of the matter was that Maxwell had been married to the nicest girl in the world, and was looking forward to having Mrs. Burke meet her, and to have his wife know the woman who had been so supremely good to him in the parish. He closed by informing her that they were to return the next day at five P. M., and if it were not asking too much, he hoped that she would take them in for a few days until they could find quarters elsewhere. The letter was countersigned by a pretty little plea for friendship from "Mrs. Betty."

Mrs. Burke replaced the letter and murmured to herself, smiling:

"Poor little dear! Of course they could come and stay as long as they pleased; but as the rectory is in order, I think that I'll meet them at the depot, and take them there direct. They'll be much happier alone by themselves from the start. I'll have supper ready for 'em, and cook the chickens while they're unpackin' their trunks."

As Mrs. Burke thought it best to maintain a discreet silence as to the time of their arrival, there was no one but herself to meet them at the station when the train pulled in. As Maxwell presented his wife to Mrs. Burke, Hepsey took the girl's two hands in hers and kissed her heartily, and then, looking at her keenly as the bride blushed under her searching gaze, she remarked:

"You're a dreadful disappointment, Mrs. Maxwell. I'm afraid it'll take me a long time to get over it."

"I am horribly sorry to disappoint you so, Mrs. Burke."

Maxwell laughed, while Mrs. Betty looked puzzled.

"Yes," Mrs. Burke continued, "you're a dreadful disappointment. Your picture isn't half as sweet as you are." Then turning to Maxwell, she said:

"Why didn't you tell me? Who taught you to pick out just the right sort of wife, I'd like to know?"

"She did!" Maxwell replied, pointing delightedly to the young woman, who was still smiling and blushing under Hepsey's inspection.

"But Mrs. Burke," Mrs. Betty interposed, "can't you give me a little credit for 'picking out' Donald, as you say?"

"Yes; Mr. Maxwell's pretty fine, though I wouldn't want to have you tell him so, for anything. But I know, because Durford is calculated to test a man's mettle, if any place ever was. Now Mrs. Betty, if that's what I'm to call you, if you'll get into the wagon we'll drive home and have some supper. You must be 'most famished by this time, if you stop thinkin' about Mr. Maxwell long enough to have an appetite. I suppose that we might have had a committee of the vestry down here to bid you welcome to Durford; and Nickey suggested the village band and some hot air balloons, and that the boys of the parish should pull the carriage up to the house after they'd presented you with a magnificent bouquet; but I thought you'd just like to slip in unnoticed and get acquainted with your parishioners one at a time. It'd be simply awful to have a whole bunch of 'em thrown at your head at once; and as for the whole vestry—well, never mind."

They got into the "democrat" and started out at a smart trot, but when they came to the road which turned toward Thunder Cliff, Mrs. Burke drove straight across the green.

"Why, where are you going, Mrs. Burke?" Maxwell exclaimed.

"Well, I thought that maybe Mrs. Betty would like to get a sight of the town before we went home."

When they came to the rectory and turned into the yard, the wonderful transformation dawned on Maxwell.

"My gracious, what a change! It's perfectly marvelous," he exclaimed. "Why Mrs. Burke, I believe you've brought us here to live!"

"Right you are, my friend. This is where you belong."

"Well, you certainly do beat the Dutch. Who is responsible for all this, I'd like to know? But of course it's you."

"Well, I had a hand in it, but so did the whole parish. Now walk right in and make yourselves at home."

Mrs. Burke enjoyed to the full Maxwell's surprise and delight, as he and Mrs. Betty explored the house like a couple of very enthusiastic children. When they got into the china closet and Mrs. Betty found a silver tea-ball she exclaimed rapturously:

"Look here, Donald! Did you ever see the like of this? Here is a regular tea-ball. We will have tea every afternoon at four, and Mrs. Burke will be our guest. How perfectly delightful."

This remark seemed to please Hepsey mightily, as she exclaimed:

"Oh, my, no! Do you want to spoil my nervous system? We are not given much to tea-balls in Durford. We consider ourselves lucky if we get a plain old-fashioned pot. Now you get fixed up," she directed, "while I get supper ready, and I'll stay just this time, if you'll let me, and then if you can stand it, perhaps you'll ask me again."

Soon they sat down to a little table covered with spotless linen and a pretty set of white china with gold bands. Maxwell did not say much; he was still too surprised and delighted.



The broiled chickens and the browned potato balls were placed before Maxwell, who faced Mrs. Betty—Hepsey sitting between them.

"Now this is what I call rich," Maxwell exclaimed as he carved. "I hadn't the slightest suspicion that we were to come here and find all these luxuries."

"However did the house get furnished?" chimed in Mrs. Betty.

"Oh well," Mrs. Burke replied, "I always believe that two young married people should start out by themselves, you know; and then if they get into a family row it won't scandalize the parish. The only new thing about the furnishings is paint and varnish. I drove around and held up the parish, and made them stand and deliver the goods, and Jonathan Jackson and I touched it up a little; that's all."

"We ought to acknowledge each gift personally," Maxwell said. "You must tell us who's given what."

"Oh, no you won't. When I took these things away from their owners by force, I acknowledged them in the politest way possible, so as to save you the trouble. You're not supposed to know where a thing came from."

"But there must have been a lot of money spent on the rectory to get it into shape," Maxwell asserted. "Where did it all come from?"

Mrs. Burke grinned with amusement.

"Why, can't you guess? Of course it was that merry-hearted, generous old Senior Warden of yours. Who else could it be? If there is anything you need, just let us know."

"But the house seems to be very completely furnished as it is."

"No, not yet. If you look around you'll see lots of things that aren't here."

Mrs. Betty quite raved over the salad, made of lettuce, oranges, walnuts and a mayonnaise dressing. Then there came ice cream and chocolate sauce, followed by black coffee.

"This is quite too much, Mrs. Burke. You must be a superb cook. I am horribly afraid you'll have spoiled Donald, so that my cooking will seem very tame to him," Mrs. Betty remarked.

"Well, never mind, Mrs. Betty. If worst comes to worst there are seven pans of soda biscuit secreted around the premises somewhere; so don't be discouraged. There are lots of things you can do with a soda biscuit, if you know how. Now we'll just clear the table, and wash the dishes, and put things away."

When about nine o'clock she arose to go, Maxwell took both Hepsey's hands in his and said quietly:

"Mrs. Burke, I'm more indebted to you than I can possibly say, for all you have done for us. I wish I knew how to thank you properly, but I don't."

"Oh, never mind that," Mrs. Burke replied, a mist gathering in her eyes, "it's been lots of fun, and if you're satisfied I'm more than pleased." Then, putting her arm around Mrs. Betty's waist, she continued:

"Remember that we're not payin' this nice little wife of yours to do parish work, and if people interfere with her you just tell em to go to Thunder Cliff. Good-by."

She was turning away when suddenly she stopped, an expression of horror on her face:

"My! think of that now! This was a bride's dinner-party, and I put yellow flowers on the table, instead of white! What'd city folks say to that!"



CHAPTER XI

VIRGINIA'S HIGH HORSE

Mrs. Betty soon succeeded in winning a place for herself in the hearts of her parishioners, and those who called to look over her "clothes," and see if she was going to "put on airs" as a city woman, called again because they really liked her. She returned the calls with equal interest, and soon had her part of the parish organization well in hand.

Maxwell's choice was, in fact, heartily approved—except by Virginia Bascom and the Senior Warden. The former took the opportunity to leave cards on an afternoon when all Durford was busily welcoming Betty at a tea; and was "not at home" when Betty duly returned the call. Virginia was also careful not to "see" either Betty or her husband if, by any chance, they passed her when in town.

Of all of which manoeuvres Betty and Donald remained apparently sublimely unconscious.

As a means of making some return for the good-hearted generosity and hospitality of the inhabitants, represented by the furniture at the rectory and many tea-parties under various roof-trees, Mrs. Maxwell persuaded her husband that they should give a parish party.

So invitations were issued broadcast, and Mrs. Burke was asked to scan the lists, lest anyone be omitted. China sufficient for the occasion was supplemented by Hepsey Burke and Jonathan Jackson, and Nickey laid his invaluable services under contribution to fetch and carry—organizing a corps of helpers.

The whole adult village,—at least the feminine portion of it,—young and old, presented themselves at the party, dressed in their best bibs and tuckers, amusing themselves outdoors at various improvised games, under the genial generalship of their host; and regaling themselves within at the tea-tables presided over by Mrs. Betty, whose pride it was to have prepared with her own hands,—assisted by the indefatigable Hepsey,—all the cakes and preserves and other confections provided for the occasion. The whole party was one whole-hearted, simply convivial gathering—with but a single note to mar it; and who knows whether the rector, and still less the rector's wife, would have noticed it, but for Hepsey Burke's subsequent "boiling over?"

When the games and feast were at full swing, Virginia Bascom's loud-voiced automobile drove up, and the door-bell pealed. The guests ceased chattering and the little maid, hired for the occasion, hurried from the tea-cups to answer the haughty summons. Through the silence in the tea-room, produced by the overpowering clatter of the bell, the voice of the little maid,—quite too familiar for the proper formality of the occasion, in Virginia's opinion,—was heard to pipe out cheerily:

"Come right in, Miss Virginia; the folks has eat most all the victuals—but I guess Mrs. Maxwell'll find ye some."

"Please announce 'Miss Virginia Bascom'," droned the lady, ignoring the untoward levity of the now cowering maid, and followed her to the door of the room full of guests, where she paused impressively.

"Mrs. Bascom," called the confused maid, through the solemn silence, as all eyes turned towards the door, "here's,—this is,—I mean Miss Virginia says Miss Virginia Maxwell——" After which confusing and somewhat embarrassing announcement the maid summarily fled to the kitchen, and left Virginia to her own devices.

Betty at once came forward, and quite ignoring the error, smiled a pleasant welcome.

"Miss Bascom, it is very nice to know you at last. We have been so unlucky, have we not?"

Virginia advanced rustling, and gave Betty a frigid finger-tip, held shoulder-high, and cast a collective stare at hostess and guests through her lorgnette, bowing to Maxwell and ignoring his proffered handshake.

There was an awkward pause. For once even Betty-the-self-possessed was at a loss for the necessary tactics.

A hearty voice soon filled the empty spaces: "Hello there, Ginty; I always did say those auto's was a poor imitation of a street-car; when they get balky and leave you sticking in the road-side and make you behind-time, you can't so much as get your fare back and walk. None but royalty, duchesses, and the four-hundred can afford to risk losing their cup o' tea in them things."

There was a general laugh at Hepsey's sally, and conversation again resumed its busy buzzing, and Virginia was obliged to realize that her entry had been something of a frost.

She spent some minutes drawing off her gloves, sipped twice at a cup of tea, and nibbled once at a cake; spent several more minutes getting her hands back into her gloves, fixed a good-by smile on her face, murmured some unintelligible words to her hostess, and departed, annoyed to realize that the engine of the awaiting car—kept running to emphasize her comet-like passage through so mixed an assembly—had become quite inaudible to the company.

"Such an insult!" stormed the lady, as she returned home in high dudgeon. "I might have been a nobody, the way they treated me. Dad shall hear of this; and I'll see that he puts them where they belong. The impudence! And after his t-treating me s-s-so!" she wept with chagrin, and malice that betokened no good to the rector and his little wife.

Even so, it is doubtful if the host and hostess would have permitted themselves to notice the supercilious rudeness of the leader of Durford "Society," had Hepsey been able to curb her indignation.

As she and Betty and the little maid, assisted by Donald and Nickey and his helpers, were clearing up the fragments that remained of the entertainment, Hepsey broke forth:

"If I don't set that young woman down in her place where she belongs before I've done, I've missed my guess: 'Please announce Miss Virginia Bascom,' indeed! If that isn't sauce, I'm the goose."

"Oh never mind, Mrs. Burke," soothed Betty in a low voice; "she'll soon realize that we're doing things in good old country style, and haven't brought any city ways with us to Durford. I dare say she thought——"

"Thought nothin'!" replied the exasperated Hepsey. "I'll thought her, with her high looks and her proud stomach, as the psalmist says. I'd like—oh, wouldn't I just like to send up a nice little basket of these left-over victuals to Ginty, 'with Mrs. Maxwell's regards.'"

She laughed heartily, but Betty was determined not to let herself dwell on anything so trivial, and soon, by way of changing the subject, she was putting Nickey up to the idea of forming a boy-scout corps, which, as she added, could present the village with a thoroughly versatile organization, both useful and ornamental.

"Gee," remarked Nickey, who quickly saw himself captaining a body of likely young blades, "that'd be some lively corpse, believe me. When can we start in, Mrs. Maxwell?"

"You must ask Mr. Maxwell all about that, Nickey," she laughed.

"But not now," interposed his mother. "You come along with me this minute, and let Mr. Maxwell have a bit of peace; I know how he just loves these teas. Good night, all!" she called as she departed with her son under her wing.

"Donald! Wasn't it all fun—and weren't they all splendid?" Betty glowed.

"More fun than a barrel of Bascoms—monkeys, I mean," he corrected himself, laughing at Betty's shocked expression.



CHAPTER XII

HOUSE CLEANING AND BACHELORHOOD

Apart from Mrs. Burke, there was no one in the town who so completely surrendered to Mrs. Maxwell's charms as Jonathan Jackson, the Junior Warden. Betty had penetration enough to see, beneath the man's rough exterior, all that was fine and lovable, and she treated him with a jolly, friendly manner that warmed his heart.

One day she and Mrs. Burke went over to call on Jonathan, and found him sitting in the woodshed on a tub turned bottom upwards, looking very forlorn and disconsolate.

"What's the matter, Jonathan? You look as if you had committed the unpardonable sin," Hepsey greeted him.

"No, it 'aint me," Jonathan replied; "it's Mary McGuire that's the confounded sinner this time."

"Well, what's Mary been up to now?"

"Mary McGuire's got one of her attacks of house-cleanin' on, and I tell you it's a bad one. Drat the nuisance."

"Why Jonathan! Don't swear like that."

"Well, I be hanged if I can stand this sort of thing much longer. Mary, she's the deuce and all, when she once gets started house-cleanin'."

"Oh dear," Mrs. Betty sympathized. "It's a bother, isnt it? But it doesn't take so long, and it will soon be over, won't it?"

"Well, I don't know as to that," replied Jonathan disconsolately. "Mary McGuire seems to think that the whole house must be turned wrong side out, and every bit of furniture I've got deposited in the front yard. Now, Mrs. Betty, you just look over there once. There's yards and yards of clothes-line covered with carpets and rugs and curtains I've been ordered to clean. It's somethin' beyond words. The whole place looks as if there was goin' to be an auction, or a rummage sale, or as if we had moved out 'cause the house was afire. Then she falls to with tubs of boilin' hot soap-suds, until it fills your lungs, and drips off the ends of your nose and your fingers, and smells like goodness knows what."

"Jonathan!" Hepsey reproved.

"Are you exaggerating just the least bit?" echoed Betty.

"No ma'am, I'm not. Words can't begin to tell the tale when Mary gets the fever on. I thought I noticed symptoms of house-cleanin' last week. Mary was eyein' things round the house, and givin' me less and less to eat, and lookin' at me with that cold-storage stare of hers that means death or house-cleanin'."

"But, Mr. Jackson," Betty pleaded, "your house has to be cleaned sometimes, you know."

"Sure thing," Jonathan replied. "But there's altogether too much of this house-cleanin' business goin' on to suit me. I don't see any dirt anywheres."

"That's because you are a man," Hepsey retorted. "Men never see dirt until they have to take a shovel to it."

Jonathan sighed hopelessly. "What's the use of bein' a widower," he continued, "if you can't even have your own way in your own house, I'd just like to know? I have to eat odds and ends of cold victuals out here in the woodshed, or anywhere Mary McGuire happens to drop 'em."

"That's tough luck, Mr. Jackson. You just come over to dinner with Donald and me and have a square meal."

"I'd like to awful well, Mrs. Maxwell, but I dasn't: if I didn't camp out and eat her cold victuals she'd laid out for me, it'd spoil the pleasure of house-cleanin' for her. 'Taint as though it was done with when she's finished, neither. After it's all over, and things are set to rights, they're all wrong. Some shades won't roll up. Some won't roll down; why, I've undressed in the dark before now, since one of 'em suddenly started rollin' up on me before I'd got into bed, and scared the wits out of me. She'll be askin' me to let her give the furnace a sponge bath next. I believe she'd use tooth-powder on the inside of a boiled egg, if she only knew how. This house-cleanin' racket is all dum nonsense, anyhow."

"Why Jonathan! Don't swear like that," Betty exclaimed laughing; "Mr. Maxwell's coming."

"I said d-u-m, Mrs. Betty; I never say nothin' worse than that—'cept when I lose my temper," he added, safely, examining first the hone and then the edge of the scythe, as if intending to sharpen it.



Hepsey had gone into the house to inspect for herself the thoroughness of Mary McGuire's operations; Betty thought the opportunity favorable for certain counsels.

"The trouble with you is you shouldn't be living alone, like this, Jonathan. You have all the disadvantages of a house, and none of the pleasures of a home."

"Yes," he responded, yawning, "it's true enough; but I 'aint a chicken no more, Mrs. Betty, and I've 'most forgot how to do a bit of courtin'. What with cleanin' up, and puttin' on your Sunday clothes, and goin' to the barber's, and gettin' a good ready, it's a considerable effort for an old man like me."

"People don't want to see your clothes; they want to see you. If you feel obliged to, you can send your Sunday clothes around some day and let her look at them once for all. Keeping young is largely a matter of looking after your digestion and getting plenty of sleep. Its all foolishness for you to talk about growing old. Why, you are in the prime of life."

"Hm! Yes. And why don't you tell me that I look real handsome, and that the girls are all crazy for me. You're an awful jollier, Mrs. Betty, though I'll admit that a little jollyin' does me a powerful lot of good now and then. I sometimes like to believe things I know to a certainty 'aint true, if they make me feel good."

For a moment Betty kept silent, gazing into the kindly face, and then the instinct of match-making asserted itself too strongly to be resisted.

"There's no sense in your being a lonesome widower. Why don't you get married? I mean it."

For a moment Jonathan was too astounded at the audacity of the serious suggestion to reply; but when he recovered his breath he exclaimed:

"Well, I swan to man! What will you ask me to be doin' next?"

"Oh, I mean it, all right," persisted Mrs. Betty. "Here you've got a nice home for a wife, and I tell you you need the happiness of a real home. You will live a whole lot longer if you have somebody to love and look after; and if you want to know what you will be asking me to do next, I will wager a box of candy it will be to come to your wedding."

"Make it cigars, Mrs. Betty; I'm not much on candy. Maybe you're up to tellin' me who'll have me. I haven't noticed any females makin' advances towards me in some time now. The only woman I see every day is Mary McGuire, and she'd make a pan-cake griddle have the blues if she looked at it."

Mrs. Betty grasped her elbow with one hand, and putting the first finger of the other hand along the side of her little nose, whispered:

"What's the matter with Mrs. Burke?"

Jonathan deliberately pulled a hair from his small remaining crop and cut it with the scythe, as if he had not heard Betty's impertinent suggestion. But finally he replied:

"There's nothin' the matter with Mrs. Burke that I know of; but that's no reason why she should be wantin' to marry me."

"She thinks a great deal of you; I know she does."

"How do you know she does?"

"Well, I heard her say something very nice about you yesterday."

"Hm! Did you? What was it?"

"She said that you were the most—the most economical man she ever met."

"Sure she didn't say I was tighter than the bark on a tree? I guess I 'aint buyin' no weddin' ring on the strength of that. Now, Mrs. Betty, you just try again. I guess you're fooling me!"

"Oh no, really I'm not. I never was more serious in my life. I mean just what I say. I know Mrs. Burke really thinks a very great deal of you, and if you like her, you ought to propose to her. Every moment a man remains single is an outrageous waste of time."

Jonathan grinned as he retorted:

"Well, no man would waste any time if all the girls were like you. They'd all be comin' early to avoid the rush. Is Mrs. Burke employin' your services as a matrimonial agent? Maybe you won't mind tellin' me what you're to get if the deal pulls off. Is there a rake-off anywheres?"

Betty laughed, and Jonathan was silent for a while, squinting at the scythe-edge, first from one angle, then from another, and tentatively raising the hone as if to start sharpening.

"Well, Mrs. Betty," he said presently, "seein' I can't possibly marry you, I don't mind tellin' you that I think the next best thing would be to marry Hepsey Burke. She's been a mighty good friend and neighbor ever since my wife died; but she wouldn't look at the likes of me. 'Twouldn't be the least use of proposin' to her."

"How do you know it wouldn't? You are not afraid of proposing, are you?"

"No, of course not; but I can't run over and propose, as I would ask her to lend me some clothes-line. That'd be too sudden; and courtin' takes a lot of time and trouble. I guess I 'most forgot how by this time; and then, to tell you the truth, I always was a bit shy. It took me near onto five years to work myself up to the sticking point when I proposed to my first wife."

"Well, now that's easy enough; Mrs. Burke usually sits on the side porch after supper with her knitting. Why don't you drop over occasionally, and approach the matter gradually? It wouldn't take long to work up to the point."

"But how shall I begin? I guess you'll have to give me lessons."

"Oh, make her think you are very lonely. Pity is akin to love, you know."

"But she knows well enough I'm mighty lonely at times. That won't do."

"Then make her think that you are a regular daredevil, and are going to the bad. Maybe she'll marry you to save you."

"Me, goin' to the bad at my age, and the Junior Warden of the church, too. What are you thinkin' of?"

"It is never too late to mend, you know. You might try being a little frisky, and see what happens."

"Oh, I know what would happen all right. She'd be over here in two jerks of a lamb's tail, and read the riot act, and scare me out of a year's growth. Hepsey's not a little thing to be playin' with."

"Well, you just make a start. Anything to make a start, and the rest will come easy."

"My, how the neighbors'd talk!"

"Talk is cheap; and besides, in a quiet place like this it's a positive duty to afford your neighbors some diversion; you ought to be thankful. You'll become a public benefactor. Now will you go ahead?"

"Mrs. Betty, worry's bad for the nerves, and's apt to produce insomny and neurastheny. But I'll think it over—yes, I will—I'll think it over."

Whereupon he suddenly began to whet his scythe with such vim as positively startled Betty.



CHAPTER XIII

THE CIRCUS

The Maxwells were, in fact, effectively stirring up the ambitions of their flock, routing the older members out of a too easy-going acceptance of things-as-they-are, and giving to the younger ones vistas of a life imbued with more color and variety than had hitherto entered their consciousness. And yet it happened at Durford, on occasion, that this awakening of new talents and individuality produced unlocked for complications.

"Oh yes," Hepsey remarked one day to Mrs. Betty, when the subject of conversation had turned to Mrs. Burke's son and heir, "Nickey means to be a good boy, but he's as restless as a kitten on a hot Johnny-cake. He isn't a bit vicious, but he do run his heels down at the corners, and he's awful wearin' on his pants-bottoms and keeps me patchin' and mendin' most of the time—'contributing to the end in view,' as Abraham Lincoln said. But, woman-like, I guess he finds the warmest spot in my heart when I'm doin' some sort of repairin' on him or his clothes. It would be easier if his intentions wasn't so good, 'cause I could spank him with a clear conscience if he was vicious. But after all, Nickey seems to have a winnin' way about him. He knows every farmer within three miles; he'll stop any team he meets, climb into the wagon seat, take the reins, and enjoy himself to his heart's content. All the men seem to like him and give in to him; more's the pity! And he seems to just naturally lead the other kids in their games and mischief."

"Oh well, I wouldn't give a cent for a boy who didn't get into mischief sometimes," consoled Mrs. Betty.

At which valuation Nickey was then in process of putting himself and his young friends at a premium. For, about this time, in their efforts to amuse themselves, Nickey and some of his friends constructed a circus ring back of the barn: After organizing a stock company and conducting several rehearsals, the rest of the boys in the neighborhood were invited to form an audience, and take seats which had been reserved for them without extra charge on an adjoining lumber pile. Besides the regular artists there were a number of specialists or "freaks," who added much to the interest and excitement of the show.

For example, Sam Cooley, attired in one of Mrs. Burke's discarded underskirts, filched from the ragbag, with some dried cornstalk gummed on his face, impersonated the famous Bearded Lady from Hoboken.

Billy Burns, wearing a very hot and stuffy pillow buttoned under his coat and thrust down into his trousers, represented the world-renowned Fat Man from Spoonville. His was rather a difficult role to fill gracefully, because the squashy pillow would persist in bulging out between his trousers and his coat in a most indecent manner; and it kept him busy most of the time tucking it in.

Dimple Perkins took the part of the Snake Charmer from Brooklyn, and at intervals wrestled fearlessly with a short piece of garden hose which was labeled on the bills as an "Anna Condy." This he wound around his neck in the most reckless manner possible; it was quite enough to make one's blood run cold to watch him.

The King of the Cannibal Islands was draped in a buffalo robe, with a gilt paper crown adorning his head, and a very suggestive mutton-bone in his hand.

Poor little Herman Amdursky was selected for the Living Skeleton, because of the spindle-like character of his nethermost limbs. He had to remove his trousers and his coat, and submit to having his ribs wound with yards of torn sheeting, in order that what little flesh he had might be compressed to the smallest possible compass. The result was astonishingly satisfactory.

The Wild Man from Borneo wore his clothes wrong side out, as it is well known wild men from Borneo always do; and he ate grass with avidity. Wry-mouthed and squint-eyed, he was the incarnation of the cubist ideal.

When all this splendid array of talent issued from the dressing-room and marched triumphantly around the ring, it was indeed a proud moment in the annals of Durford, and the applause from the lumber pile could be heard at least two blocks.

After the procession, the entertainment proper consisted of some high and lofty tumbling, the various "turns" of the respective stars, and then, last of all, as a grand finale, Charley, the old raw-boned farm horse who had been retired on a pension for at least a year, was led triumphantly into the ring, with Nickey Burke standing on his back!

Charley, whose melancholy aspect was a trifle more abject than usual, and steps more halting, meekly followed the procession of actors around the ring, led by Dimple, the Snake Charmer. Nickey's entree created a most profound sensation, and was greeted with tumultuous applause—a tribute both to his equestrian feat and to his costume.

Nickey had once attended a circus at which he had been greatly impressed by the artistic decorations on the skin of a tattooed man, and by the skill of the bareback rider who had turned somersaults while the horse was in motion. It occurred to him that perhaps he might present somewhat of both these attractions, in one character.

Maxwell had innocently stimulated this taste by lending him a book illustrated with lurid color-plates of Indians in full war paint, according to tribe.

So Nickey removed his clothes, attired himself in abbreviated red swimming trunks, and submitted to the artistic efforts of Dimple, who painted most intricate, elaborate, and beautiful designs on Nickey's person, with a thick solution of indigo purloined from the laundry.

Nickey's breast was adorned with a picture of a ship under full sail. On his back was a large heart pierced with two arrows. A vine of full blown roses twined around each arm, while his legs were powdered with stars, periods, dashes, and exclamation points in rich profusion. A triangle was painted on each cheek, and dabs of indigo were added to the end of his nose and to the lobe of each ear by way of finishing touches.

When the work was complete, Nickey surveyed himself in a piece of broken mirror in the dressing-room, and to tell the truth, was somewhat appalled at his appearance; but Dimple Perkins hastened to assure him, saying that a dip in the river would easily remove the indigo; and that he was the living spit and image of a tattooed man, and that his appearance, posed on the back of Charley, would certainly bring the house down.

Dimple proved to be quite justified in his statement, so far as the effect on the audience was concerned; for, as Nickey entered the ring, after one moment of breathless astonishment, the entire crowd arose as one man and cheered itself hoarse, in a frenzy of frantic delight. Now whether Charley was enthused by the applause, or whether the situation reminded him of some festive horseplay of his youth, one cannot tell. At any rate, what little life was left in Charley's blood asserted itself. Quickly jerking the rope of the halter from the astonished hand of Dimple Perkins, Charley turned briskly round, and trotted out of the yard and into the road, while Nickey, who had found himself suddenly astride Charley's back, made frantic efforts to stop him.

As Charley emerged from the gate, the freaks, the regular artists, the gymnasts, and the entire audience followed, trailing along behind the mounted tattooed man, and shouting themselves hoarse with encouragement or derision.

As Charley rose to the occasion and quickened his pace, the heat of the sun, the violent exercise of riding bareback, and the nervous excitement produced by the horror of the situation, threw Nickey into a profuse sweat. The bluing began to run. The decorations on his forehead trickled down into his eyes; and as he tried to rub off the moisture with the back of his hand the indigo was smeared liberally over his face. His personal identity was hopelessly obscured in the indigo smudge; and the most vivid imagination could not conjecture what had happened to the boy. It was by no means an easy feat to retain his seat on Charley's back; it would have been still more difficult to dismount, at his steed's brisk pace; and Nickey was most painfully conscious of his attire, as Charley turned up the road which led straight to the village. At each corner the procession was reinforced by a number of village boys who added their quota to the general uproar and varied the monotony of the proceeding by occasionally throwing a tin can at the rider on the white horse. When Charley passed the rectory, and the green, and turned into Church Street, Nickey felt that he had struck rock bottom of shameful humiliation.

For many years it had been Charley's habit to take Mrs. Burke down to church on Wednesday afternoons for the five o'clock service; and although he had been out of commission and docked for repairs for some time, his subliminal self must have got in its work, and the old habit asserted itself: to the church he went, attended at a respectful distance by the Bearded Lady, the Fat Man, the Snake Charmer, the King of the Cannibal Islands, the Living Skeleton, and the Wild Man from Borneo, to say nothing of a large and effective chorus of roaring villagers bringing up the rear.

It really was quite clever of Charley to recall that, this being Wednesday, it was the proper day to visit the church,—as clever as it was disturbing to Nickey when he, too, recalled that it was about time for the service to be over, and that his mother must be somewhere on the premises, to say nothing of the assembled mothers of the entire stock company—and the rector, and the rector's wife.

Mrs. Burke, poor woman, was quite unconscious of what awaited her, as she emerged from the service with the rest of the congregation. It was an amazed parent that caught sight of her son and heir scrambling off the back of his steed onto the horse-block in front of the church, clad in short swimming trunks and much bluing. The freaks, the regular artists, the gymnasts, and the circus audience generally shrieked and howled and fought each other, in frantic effort to succeed to Nickey's place on Charley's back—for Charley now stood undismayed and immovable, with a gentle, pious look in his soft old eyes.

For one instant, Mrs. Burke and her friends stood paralyzed with horror; and then like the good mothers in Israel that they were, each jumped to the rescue of her own particular darling—that is, as soon as she could identify him. Consternation reigned supreme. Mrs. Cooley caught the Bearded Lady by the arm and shook him fiercely, just as he was about to land an uppercut on the jaw of the King of the Cannibal Islands. Mrs. Burns found her offspring, the Fat Man, lying dispossessed on his back in the gutter, while Sime Wilkins, the Man Who Ate Glass, sat comfortably on his stomach. Sime immediately apologized to Mrs. Burns and disappeared. Next, Mrs. Perkins took the Snake Charmer by his collar, and rapped him soundly with the piece of garden hose which she captured as he was using it to chastise the predatory Wild Man from Borneo. Other members of the company received equally unlooked-for censure of their dramatic efforts.

Nickey, meantime, had fled to the pump behind the church, where he made his ablutions as best he could; then, seeing the vestry room door ajar, he, in his extremity, bolted for the quiet seclusion of the sanctuary.

To his surprise and horror, he found Maxwell seated at a table looking over the parish records; and when Nickey appeared, still rather blue, attired in short red trunks, otherwise unadorned, Donald gazed at him in mute astonishment. For one moment there was silence as they eyed each other; and then Maxwell burst into roars of uncontrollable laughter, which were not quite subdued as Nickey gave a rather incoherent account of the misfortune which had brought him to such a predicament.

"So you were the Tattooed Man, were you! Well, I suppose you know that it's not generally customary to appear in church in red tights; but as you couldn't help it, I shall have to see what can be done for you, to get you home clothed and in your right mind. I'll tell you! You can put on one of the choir boy's cassocks, and skip home the back way. If anybody stops you tell them you were practising for the choir, and it will be all right. But really, Nickey, if I were in your place, the next time I posed as a mounted Tattooed Man, I'd be careful to choose some old quadruped that couldn't run away with you!"

"Then you aren't mad at me!"

"Certainly not. I'll leave that to my betters! You just get home as fast as you can."

"Gee! but you're white all right—you know it didn't say nothing in the book, about what kind of paint to use!"

Maxwell's eyes opened. "What book are you talking about, Nickey?" he asked.

"The one you let me take, with the Indians in it."

Maxwell had to laugh again. "So that's where the idea for this 'Carnival of Wild West Sports' originated, eh?"

"Yes, sir," Nickey nodded. "Everybody wanted to be the tattooed man, but seeing as I had the book, and old Charley was my horse, I couldn't see any good reason why I shouldn't get tattooed. Gee! I'll bet ma will be mad!"

After being properly vested in a cassock two sizes too large for him, Nickey started on a dead run for home, and, having reached the barn, dressed himself in his customary attire. When he appeared at supper Mrs. Burke did not say anything; but after the dishes were washed she took him apart and listened to his version of the affair.

"Nicholas Burke," she said, "if this thing occurs again I shall punish you in a way you won't like."

"Well, I'm awfully sorry," said Nickey, "but it didn't seem to feaze Mr. Maxwell a little bit. He just sat and roared as if he'd split his sides. I guess I 'aint goin' to be put out of the church just yet, anyway."

Mrs. Burke looked a bit annoyed.

"Never mind about Mr. Maxwell. You won't laugh if anything like this occurs again, I can tell you," she replied.

"Now, ma," soothed Nickey, "don't you worry about it occurrin' again. You don't suppose I did it on purpose, do you? Gosh no! I wouldn't get onto Charley's back again, with my clothes off, any more than I'd sit on a hornet's nest. How'd you like to ride through the town with nothin' on but your swimmin' trunks and drippin' with bluin water, I'd like to know?"

Mrs. Burke did not care to prolong the interview any further, so she said in her severest tones:

"Nicholas Burke, you go to bed instantly. I've heard enough of you and seen enough of you, for one day."

Nickey went.



CHAPTER XIV

ON THE SIDE PORCH

In the evening, after his work was done, a day or two after his talk with Mrs. Maxwell, Jonathan went into the house and took a long look at himself in the glass, with the satisfactory conclusion that he didn't look so old after all. Why shouldn't he take Mrs. Betty's advice and marry? To be sure, there was no fool like an old fool, but no man could be called a fool who was discriminating enough, and resourceful enough, to win the hand of Hepsey Burke. To his certain knowledge she had had plenty of eligible suitors since her husband's death. She was the acknowledged past-master of doughnuts; and her pickled cucumbers done in salad oil were dreams of delight. What more could a man want?

So he found that the question was deciding itself apparently without any volition whatever on his part. His fate was sealed; he had lost his heart and his appetite to his neighbor. Having come to this conclusion, it was wonderful how the thought excited him. He took a bath and changed his clothes, and then proceeded to town and bought himself a white neck-tie, and a scarf-pin that cost seventy-five cents. He was going to do the thing in the proper way if he did it at all.

After supper he mustered sufficient courage to present himself at the side porch where Mrs. Burke was knitting on a scarlet sweater for Nickey.

"Good evenin', Hepsey," he began. "How are you feelin' to-night?"

"Oh, not so frisky as I might, Jonathan; I'd be all right if it weren't for my rheumatiz."

"Well, we all have our troubles, Hepsey; and if it isn't one thing it's most generally another. You mustn't rebel against rheumatiz. It's one of those things sent to make us better, and we must bear up against it, you know."

Hepsey did not respond to this philosophy, and Jonathan felt that it was high time that he got down to business. So he began again:

"It seems to me as if we might have rain before long if the wind don't change."

"Shouldn't be surprised, Jonathan. One—two—three—four—" Mrs. Burke replied, her attention divided between her visitor and her sweater. "Got your hay all in?"

"Yes, most of it. 'Twon't be long before the long fall evenin's will be comin' on, and I kinder dread 'em. They're awful lonesome, Hepsey."

"Purl two, knit two, an inch and a half—" Mrs. Burke muttered to herself as she read the printed directions which lay in her lap, and then she added encouragingly:

"So you get lonesome, do you, Jonathan, durin' the long evenin's, when it gets dark early."

"Oh, awful lonesome," Jonathan responded. "Don't you ever get lonesome yourself, Hepsey?"

"I can't say as it kept me awake nights. 'Tisn't bein' alone that makes you lonesome. The most awful lonesomeness in the world is bein' in a crowd that's not your kind."

"That's so, Hepsey. But two isn't a crowd. Don't you think you'd like to get married, if you had a right good chance, now?"

Hepsey gave her visitor a quick, sharp glance, and inquired:

"What would you consider a right good chance, Jonathan?"

"Oh, suppose that some respectable widower with a tidy sum in the bank should ask you to marry him; what would you say, Hepsey?"

"Can't say until I'd seen the widower, to say nothin' of the bank book—one, two, three, four, five, six—"

Jonathan felt that the crisis was now approaching; so, moving his chair a little nearer, he resumed excitedly:

"You've seen him, Hepsey; you've seen him lots of times, and he don't live a thousand miles away, neither."

"Hm! Must be he lives in Martin's Junction. Is he good lookin', Jonathan?"

"Oh, fair to middlin'. That is—of course—I well—I—I should think he was; but tastes differ."

"Well, you know I'm right particular, Jonathan. Is he real smart and clever?"

"I don't know as—I ought to—to—say, Hepsey; but I rather guess he knows enough to go in when it rains."

"That's good as far as it goes. The next time you see him, you tell him to call around and let me look him over. Maybe I could give him a job on the farm, even if I didn't want to marry him."

"But he doesn't want any job on the farm, Hepsey. He just wants you, that's all."

"How do you know he does? Did he ever tell you?"

"Hepsey Burke, don't you know who I'm alludin' at? Haven't you ever suspected nothin'?"

"Yes, I've suspected lots of things. Now there's Jack Dempsey. I've suspected him waterin' the milk for some time. Haven't you ever suspected anythin' yourself, Jonathan?"

"Well, I guess I'm suspectin' that you're tryin' to make a fool of me, all right."

"Oh no! Fools come ready-made, and there's a glut in the market just now; seven—eight—nine—ten; no use makin' more until the supply's exhausted. But what made you think you wanted to marry? This is so powerful sudden."

Now that the point was reached, Jonathan got a little nervous: "To—to tell you the truth, Hepsey," he stuttered, "I was in doubt about it myself for some time; but bein' as I am a Christian man I turned to the Bible for light on my path."

"Hm! And how did the light shine?"

"Well, I just shut my eyes and opened my Bible at random, and put my finger on a text. Then I opened my eyes and read what was written."

"Yes! What did you find?"

"I read somethin' about 'not a man of them escaped save six hundred that rode away on camels.'"

"Did that clear up all your difficulties?"

"No, can't say as it did. But those words about 'no man escapin'' seemed to point towards matrimony as far as they went. Then I tried a second time."

"Oh did you? I should think that six hundred camels would be enough for one round-up. What luck did you have the second time?"

"Well, I read, 'Moab is my wash pot, over Edom will I cast out my shoe.' You've seen 'em cast shoes at the carriages of brides and grooms, haven't you, Hepsey? Just for luck, you know. So it seemed to point towards matrimony again."

"Say, Jonathan, you certainly have a wonderful gift for interpretin' Scripture."

"Well, Scripture or no Scripture, I want you, Hepsey."

"Am I to understand that you're just fadin' and pinin' away for love of me? You don't look thin."

"Oh, we 'aint neither of us as young as we once was, Hepsey. Of course I can't be expected to pine real hard."

"I'm afraid it's not the real thing, Jonathan, unless you pine. Don't it keep you awake nights, or take away your appetite, or make you want to play the banjo, or nothin'?"

"No, Hepsey; to tell you the plain truth, it don't. But I feel awful lonesome, and I like you a whole lot, and I—I love you as much as anyone, I guess."

"So you are in love are you, Jonathan. Then let me give you some good advice. When you're in love, don't believe all you think, or half you feel, or anything at all you are perfectly sure of. It's dangerous business. But I am afraid that you're askin' me because it makes you think that you are young and giddy, like the rest of the village boys, to be proposin' to a shy young thing like me."

"No, Hepsey; you aren't no shy young thing, and you haven't been for nigh on forty years. I wouldn't be proposin' to you if you were."

"Jonathan, your manners need mendin' a whole lot. The idea of insinuatin' that I am not a shy young thing. I'm ashamed of you, and I'm positive we could never get along together."

"But I can't tell a lie about you, even if I do want to marry you. You don't want to marry a liar, do you?"

"Well, the fact is, Jonathan, polite lyin's the real foundation of all good manners. What we'll ever do when we get to heaven where we have to tell the truth whether we want to or not, I'm sure I don't know. It'll be awful uncomfortable until we get used to it."

"The law says you should tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothin' but the truth," persisted the literal wooer.

"Now, see here, Jonathan. Would you say that a dog's tail was false and misleadin' just because it isn't the whole dog?"

This proposition was exceedingly confusing to Jonathan's intelligence, but after careful consideration he felt obliged to say "No."

"Of course you wouldn't," Mrs. Burke continued triumphantly, quickly following up her advantage. "You see a dog's tail couldn't be misleading, 'cause the dog leads the tail, and not the tail the dog. Any fool could see that."

Jonathan felt that he had been tricked, although he could not see just how the thing had been accomplished; so he began again:

"Now Hepsey, we're wanderin' from the point, and you're just talkin' to amuse yourself. Can't you come down to business? Here I am a widower, and here you are a widowess, and we're both lonesome, and we——"

"Who told you I was lonesome, I'd like to know?"

"Well, of course you didn't, 'cause you never tell anything to anyone. But I guessed you was sometimes, from the looks of you."

Hepsey bent her head over her work and counted stitches a long time before she looked up. Then she remarked slowly:

"There's an awful lot of sick people in the world, and I'm mighty sorry for 'em; but they'll die, or they'll get well. I guess I'm more sorry for people who have to go on livin', and workin' hard, when they're just dyin' for somebody to love 'em, and somebody to love, until the pain of it hurts like a wisdom tooth. No, I can't afford to be lonesome much, and that's a fact. So I just keep busy, and if I get too lonesome, I just go and jolly somebody that's lonesomer than I am, and we both feel better; and if I get lonely lyin' awake at night, I light a lamp and read Webster's Dictionary. Try it, Jonathan; it's a sure anti-doubt."

"There you go again, tryin' to change the subject, just when I thought you was goin' to say somethin'."

"But you don't really want to marry me. I'm not young, and I'm not interestin': one or the other you've just got to be."

"You're mighty interestin' to me, Hepsey, anyway; and—and you're mighty unselfish."

"Well, you needn't throw that in my face; I'm not to blame for bein' unselfish. I've just had to be, whether I wanted or not. It's my misfortune, not my fault. Lots of people are unselfish because they're too weak to stand up for their own rights." She paused—and then looked up at him, smiling whimsically, and added: "Well, well, Jonathan; see here now—I'll think it over, and perhaps some day before—go 'way, you horrid thing! Let go my hand, I tell you. There! You've made me drop a whole row of stitches. If you don't run over home right now, before you're tempted to do any more flirtin, I'll—I'll hold you for breach of promise."



CHAPTER XV

NICKEY'S SOCIAL AMBITIONS

To Nickey, the Maxwells were in the nature of a revelation. At his impressionable stage of boyhood, and because of their freedom from airs and graces of any kind, he was quick to notice the difference in type—"some class to them; not snobs or dudes, but the real thing," as he expressed it. His ardent admiration of Donald, and his adoration of Mrs. Betty, gave him ambition to find the key to their secret, and to partake of it.

He was too shy to speak of it,—to his mother last of all, as is the nature of a boy,—and had to rely on an observant and receptive mind for the earlier steps in his quest. When Maxwell boarded with them, Nickey had discovered that he was won't to exercise with dumb-bells each morning before breakfast. The very keenness of his desire to be initiated, held him silent. A visit to the town library, on his mother's behalf, chanced to bring his eyes—generally oblivious of everything in the shape of a book—upon the title of a certain volume designed to instruct in various parlor-feats of physical prowess.

The book was borrowed from the librarian,—a little shamefacedly. The next morning Mrs. Burke was somewhat alarmed at the noise which came from Nickey's room, and when there was a crash as if the chimney had fallen, she could stand it no longer, and hurried aloft. Nickey stood in the middle of the floor, clad in swimming trunks, gripping a large weight (purloined from the barn) in either hand, very red in the face, and much out of breath.

As the door unexpectedly opened he dived for bed and pulled the clothes under his chin.

"Land Sakes!" Hepsey breathed, aghast. "What's all this about? If there's a nail loose in the flooring I can lend you a hammer for the asking," and she examined several jagged dents in the boards.

"Say ma," urged Nickey in moving tones. "If I'd a pair of dumb-bells like Mr. Maxwell's, I c'd hold onto 'em. I've pretty near smashed my feet with them things—gosh darn it," he added ruefully, nursing the bruised member under the clothes.

"I guess you can get 'em, next time you go to Martin's Junction; but if it's exercise you want," his parent remarked unsympathetically, "there's plenty of kindlin' in the woodshed wants choppin'."

She retired chuckling to herself, as she caught a glimmer of what was working in her son's mind.

The "reading habit" having been inculcated by this lucky find at the library, it was not long before Nickey acquired from the same source a veritable collection of volumes on the polite arts and crafts—"The Ready Letter-Writer"; "Manners Maketh Man"; "Seven Thousand Errors of Speech;" "Social Culture in the Smart Set," and the like.

Nickey laboriously studied from these authorities how to enter a ball room, how to respond to a toast at a dinner given in one's honor, how to propose the health of his hostess, and how to apologize for treading on a lady's train.

In the secrecy of his chamber he put into practice the helpful suggestions of these invaluable manuals. He bowed to the washstand, begged the favor of the next dance from the towel rack, trod on the window shade and made the prescribed apology. Then he discussed the latest novel at dinner with a distinguished personage; and having smoked an invisible cigar, interspersed with such wit as accords with walnuts and wine, after the ladies had retired, he entered the drawing-room, exchanged parting amenities with the guests, bade his hostess good night, and gracefully withdrew to the clothes-press.

Several times Hepsey caught glimpses of him going through the dumb show of "Social Culture in the Smart Set," and her wondering soul was filled with astonishment at his amazing evolutions. She found it in her heart to speak of it to Mrs. Betty and Maxwell, and ask for their interpretation of the matter.

So, one day, during this seizure of feverish enthusiasm for self-culture, Hepsey and Nickey received an invitation to take supper at the rectory. Nevertheless, Mrs. Burke thought it prudent to give her son some good advice in regard to his behavior. She realized, perhaps, that a book is good so far as it goes, but is apt to ignore elementals. So she called him aside before they started:

"Now, Nickey, remember to act like a gentleman, especially at the table; you must try to do credit to your bringin' up."

"Yes, I'll do my level best if it kills me," the boy replied.

"Well, what do you do with your napkin when you first sit down to the table?"

"Tie it 'round my neck, of course!"

"Oh, no, you mustn't do anything of the sort; you must just tuck it in your collar, like any gentleman would. And when we come home what are you goin' to say to Mrs. Maxwell?"

"Oh, I'll say, 'I'll see you later.'"

"Mercy no! Say, 'I've had a very nice time.'"

"But suppose I didn't have a nice time,—what'd I say?"

For a moment Hepsey struggled to reconcile her code of ethics with her idea of good manners, and then replied:

"Why say, 'Mrs. Maxwell, it was awfully good of you to ask me,' and I don't believe she'll notice anything wrong about that."

"Hm!" Nickey retorted scornfully. "Seems pretty much like the same thing to me."

"Oh no! Not in the least. Now what will you wear when we go to the rectory?"

"My gray suit, and tan shoes, and the green tie with the purple spots on it."

"Who'll be the first to sit down to the table?"

"Search me—maybe I will, if there's good eats."

"Nonsense! You must wait for Mrs. Maxwell and the rector to be seated first."

"Well," Nickey exclaimed in exasperation, "I'm bound to make some horrible break anyway, so don't you worry, ma. It seems to me from what them books say, that when you go visitin' you've got to tell lies like a sinner; and you can't tell the truth till you get home with the door shut. I never was good at lyin'; I always get caught."

"It isn't exactly lyin', Nickey; its just sayin' nice things, and keepin' your mouth shut about the rest. Now suppose you dropped a fork under the table, what'd you say?"

"I'd say ''scuse me, Mrs. Maxwell, but one of the forks has gone, and you can go through my clothes if you want to before I go home.'"

"Hm!" Hepsey remarked dryly, "I guess the less you say, the better."

Arrived at the rectory, Nickey felt under some restraint when they first sat down to the supper table; but under the genial manner of Mrs. Maxwell he soon felt at his ease, and not even his observant mother detected any dire breach of table etiquette. His conversation was somewhat spare, his attention being absorbed and equally divided between observation of his host and consumption of the feast set before him. With sure tact, Mrs. Betty—though regarding Nickey as the guest of honor—that evening—deferred testing the results of his conversational studies until after supper: one thing at once, she decided, was fair play.

After the meal was over, they repaired together to the parlor, and while Hepsey took out her wash-rag knitting and Maxwell smoked his cigar, Mrs. Betty gave Nickey her undivided attention.

In order to interest the young people of the place in the missionary work of the parish, Mrs. Betty had organized a guild of boys who were to earn what they could towards the support of a missionary in the west. The Guild had been placed under the fostering care and supervision of Nickey as its treasurer, and was known by the name of "The Juvenile Band of Gleaners." In the course of the evening Mrs. Maxwell took occasion to inquire what progress they were making, thereby unconsciously challenging a somewhat surprising recountal.