Mr. Ivory Cheeseman certainly did look rather like a monkey, but such a wise monkey! He was little and spare, with nothing profuse about him save his white hair, which grew thick and close as a cap; his whole aspect was dry and frosty, "like the right kind of winter mornin'," Calvin Parks said when he described the old man to Mary Sands. The kitchen in which he and Calvin were sitting was just behind the shop; a low, dark room, with a little stove in the middle, glowing like a red jewel, and waking dusky gleams in the pots and pans ranged along the walls. They were not altogether ordinary pots and pans. Uncle Ivory, as East Cyrus called him, was a collector in a modest way, and his bits of copper, brass and pewter were dear to his heart. Lonzo, the village "natural," found the gaiety of his life in polishing them, and receiving pay in sugar-plums. He was at work now in a dim corner, chuckling to himself as he scoured a huge old pewter dish.



The air was full of the warm, homely fragrance of molasses candy; a pot of it was boiling on the stove, and from time to time Uncle Ivory stirred it, lifted a spoonful, and watched the drip. On a table near by other candies were cooling, peanut taffy, lemon drops, and great masses of pink and white cream candy.

"Yes," said Calvin, pursuing his own thoughts. "This is another pleasant home. Considerable many of 'em in these parts, or so it appears to a lone person. I judge you're a single man, Mr. Cheeseman?"

"Widower!" said Mr. Cheeseman briefly.

"That so!" said Calvin.

They watched the molasses for a time, as it bubbled up in little gold-brown mounds that flowed away in foam as the spoon touched them.

"She's killin' good to-day!" remarked the old man.

"Cream-o'-tartar?" asked Calvin.

"Yes! I never use any other. Yes, sir; I had a good wife, a real good one; and might have had another, if I'd judged it convenient."

Calvin looked up expectantly; it was evident that more was coming.

Mr. Cheeseman began to stir the molasses with long, slow sweeps of the spoon, talking the while.

"It was this way. My wife had a friend that she thought the world of. Well, she thought the world of me too, and when it come time for her to go, nothin' to it but I must marry this woman. The night before 'Liza was taken, she says to me, 'Ivory,' she says, 'I've left it in writin' that if you marry Elviry you'll get that two thousand dollars that's in the bank; and if not it goes to the children.' Children was married and settled, two of 'em, and well fixed. 'I want you to promise me you will!' she says."

"And did you?" asked Calvin.

"No, I didn't. I warn't goin' to tie myself up again. I'd been married thirty years, and that was enough."

"What did you say, if I may ask?"

"I said I'd think about it, and let her know in the mornin'. I knew she'd be gone by then, and she was."

Again they watched the boiling in silence. Calvin looked somewhat disturbed.

"But yet you liked the married state?" he asked presently.

"Fust-rate!" said Mr. Cheeseman placidly. He glanced at Calvin; stirred the candy, and glanced again.

"You ain't married, I think, friend Parks?"

"N—no!" said Calvin slowly. "I ain't; but—fact is, I'm wishful to be, but I don't see my way to it."

"I want to know!" said Mr. Cheeseman. "Would you like to free your mind, or don't you feel to? I'm not curious, not a mite; but yet there's times when a person can tell better what he thinks if he outs with it to somebody else. Like molasses! Take it in the cask, and it's cold, and slow, and not much to look at; but take and bile it, and stir it good, and—you see!"

The molasses boiled up in a fragrant geyser, threatening to overflow the pot; but obedient to the spoon, fell away again in foamy ripples.

"Like that!" Mr. Cheeseman repeated. "If it would clear your mind any to bile over, friend Parks, so do!"

Calvin glanced toward the corner. "Does he take much notice?" he asked.

"Lonzo? no! he's no more than a child. But yet 'tis time for him to go home. Lonzo! dinner-time!"

The simpleton rose and shambled forward, a huge uncouth figure with a face like a platter; not an empty platter now, though, for it was wreathed in smiles. He held out the shining dish. "Done good?" he asked.

"Elegant, Lonzo, elegant! you are smart, no mistake about that. Help yourself to the cream candy! that square pan is o' purpose for you."

Lonzo stowed a third of the contents of the pan in his cavernous mouth, the rest in various pockets, and departed grinning happily.

"He's as good as gold!" said Mr. Cheeseman. "Not a mite of harm in Lonzo; I wish all sensible folks was as pleasant. Now, friend Parks, bile up!"

Calvin pulled his brown moustache, and looked shy.

"I guess I'm pretty slow molasses, Mr. Cheeseman," he said. "I ain't used to bilin', except in the way of gettin' mad once in a while, and I don't do that real often; but yet I'll try my best."

In a few words he described the twins and his relation to them. "No kin, you know, blood nor married; only just neighbors all our lives till late years. I should expect to do a neighbor's part by the boys, week-days and Sundays, and I dono as ever I've done contrary."

Then he told, with more reserve, of "Miss Hands's" coming; of his finding her there; of her striking him as, take it all round, the likeliest woman ever he saw; of his saying to himself that if ever things turned out so that he had a right to ask a woman to hitch her wagon to a middle-aged hoss that had some go in him yet, here was the woman.

"But yet I told myself first thing," he added, taking up the poker and tapping the bright little stove with it; "I told myself she would be marryin' one of the boys most likely; I kep' that in mind steady, as you may say. I thought I was so used to the idee that it wouldn't jar me much of any when it come to the fact. But it did; yes siree, it did, sure enough. 'Peared as if a cog slipped somehow, and my whole works was jolted out of kilter."

He looked anxiously at Mr. Cheeseman, who nodded with grave comprehension.

"And when it comes," he went on, "to each one of them beseechin' me to get her to marry the other—why—I really am blowed, Mr. Cheeseman, and do you wonder at it?"

"She's done!" said Mr. Cheeseman, rising. "Lend a hand with that pan, friend Parks; the big square one yonder."

A moment of anxious silence followed, as the thick golden-brown mass flowed into the pan, curled into the corners, and finally settled in a smooth glossy sheet.

"There!" said Mr. Cheeseman. "Now we'll let her cool a spell till she's fit to handle. Take your seat, friend Parks! No, I don't wonder no way in the world at your bein' blowed, or jolted either. What gets me is, why don't you speak for yourself, like that other feller in the story?"

Calvin Parks pulled his moustache meditatively.

"I know!" he said. "Longfellow's poems. Mother thought a sight of Longfellow's poems. John Alden, warn't it? and the old fellow was Miles Standish? Yes, I rec'lect well. But you see, Mr. Cheeseman, the young woman herself give him the tip that time. 'Why don't you speak for yourself, John?' I rec'lect well enough. Now, Miss Hands never give me any reason to think she'd rather have me than ary one of the boys."

"Has she given you any reason to think she wouldn't?" queried the old man.

"Well—no! I don't know as she has."

"Well, then, where does the trouble come in? You're twice the man they are, I take it, from all accounts. Don't know as ever I saw them, but I knew the old woman, and used to hear of her goin's on bringing these young uns up. I don't see as you're bound to canvass for them, no way in the world. Rustle in and get her yourself, is what I say."

Calvin looked at him anxiously.

"You see, Mr. Cheeseman, it's this way," he said. "I think a sight of her, don't I? I've said so, and I haven't said half. That bein' so, nat'rally I want her to be well fixed, don't you see? The best that can be, ain't that so? Now, either one of those two darned old huckleberries can give her a first-rate home; as nice a place as there is in this State, house, stock and fixin's all to match. A woman wants a home; one of them old gooseberries said so, and it's true. Now, what have I got to offer her? I've got a hole in the ground, and a candy route. You see how it is, don't you, Mr. Cheeseman?"

Mr. Cheeseman reflected for a few minutes.

"Where's your savin's?" he asked abruptly. "You were master of a coasting schooner for ten year, you say. Single man, and no bad habits, I should judge,—you'd ought to have money in the bank, young man. What have you done with it?"

Calvin hung his head.

"That's right!" he said. "That's so, Mr. Cheeseman. I had money in the bank. Last year I drawed it out, like a fool; somebody'd been talkin' investments to me, and I thought I could do better with it; and—well, I had it on board, and there was a feller,—well, I needn't go into that. I never thought he would have, if his mind had been quite straight. Wife died, and he warn't the same man afterwards. You can see how 'twas! He took it, and then got drownded with it in his pants pocket—or so it seemed likely—so nobody got much out of that deal. I had some part of it in another place, though, sufficient to buy me the route, and five dollars over. I put the five dollars in the bank, but it don't yield what you'd call an income precisely. So there it is, Mr. Cheeseman, and I can't see that things looks much like matrimony for little Calvin. Honest now, do you?"

Mr. Cheeseman rumpled his thick hair till it gave the impression of Papa Monkey's having married a white cockatoo. He glanced at Calvin sidewise.

"She has money,—" he said slowly.

"And she can keep it!" said Calvin Parks. "I ain't that kind."

"Just so!" said Mr. Cheeseman. "Precisely. Where are you livin' now, friend Parks?"

"I'm boardin' with Widder Marlin;" said Calvin.

The old man looked up sharply. "You are?" he said. "Humph! that don't seem a very likely place, 'cordin' to folks's ideas round here. Them two aren't thought specially well of by their neighbors."

"That so?" said Calvin. "I guess they won't hurt me any. I sailed mate to Cap'n Marlin," he added, "and he was always good to me."

"Humph!" said Mr. Cheeseman again. "I see." He rumpled his hair again, and rose to his feet. "Friend Parks," he said, slowly, "you've got to lay by, that's all there is to it; and I'm going to show you how."



CHAPTER X

JOHN ALDEN—WITH A DIFFERENCE

Winter had come. Early December though it was, the snow lay deep and smooth over meadow and hill, and hung in fluffy masses on the branches of pine and fir. Calvin Parks had got rid of the wheels that never ceased to incommode him, and jingled along merrily on runners, both he and Hossy enjoying the change.

It had become a matter of course that he should turn in at the Sills' gateway whenever he passed along their road, and he managed to pass once or twice a week. So on this crystal morning he found himself driving into the stable yard almost unconsciously. The brown horse whinnied as he clattered into the stable, and an answering whinny came from the furthest stall in the corner.

"That's old John sayin' good mornin', hossy!" said Calvin. "How are you, John? Who else is to home?"

He looked along the row of stalls. "Here's the old hoss of all, and here's the mare. The young colt is out; presume likely Sam is gone to market, hossy. What say to gettin' a bite in his stall? He won't be back till dinner time."

Hossy approving, Calvin unharnessed him, and he stepped into the stall without further invitation.

"Now you be real friendly with old John and the mare!" said Calvin, "and I'll come for you sooner than you're ready."

The brown horse flung him a brief snort of assurance, and plunged his head into the manger; and Calvin fastened the door and made his way slowly toward the house.

The back view of the Sill farmhouse was hardly less pleasant than the front, especially when, as now, the morning sun lay full on the warm yellow of the house, the bright green of the door, and the reddish granite of the well-scoured steps. A screen of dark evergreens set off all these cheerful tints; and to make the picture still gayer Mary Sands, a scarlet "sontag" tied trimly over her blue dress, was sitting on the cellar door, picking over tomatoes.

Calvin Parks was conscious of missing Hossy. He wanted some one to appeal to.

"Do you see that?" he murmured, addressing the landscape. "Do you call that handsome? because if you don't, you are a calf's-head, whatever else you may be."

Mary Sands looked up, and her bright face grew brighter at sight of him.

"Oh, Mr. Parks!" she cried. "I am glad to see you. I've been wishin' all the week you'd come by and stop in a bit. Now this is a pleasure, surely! Come right in!"

"Hold on, Miss Hands!" said Calvin, as she moved toward the door. "Hold on just a minute. How about the tomaytoes?"



"Oh, they can wait!" said Mary. "I was just turning 'em so they'd get the sun on all sides."

"Ain't it remarkable late for tomaytoes?" asked Calvin. "I dono as ever I see ripe ones at this season. I expect you can do what you like with gardin truck, Miss Hands, same as with most things."

Mary blushed and twinkled.

"Oh, I don't know!" she answered. "I've always had good luck with late vegetables. I do suppose I've kept these tomaytoes on later than common, though; I confess I'm rather proud of them, Mr. Parks. Cousins say I tend 'em like young chickens, and I don't know but I do. I put 'em out mornings, when 'tis bright and warm like this, and take 'em in before sundown, fear they'll get chilled. Anything ripens so much better in the sun."

"I don't believe you've turned 'em all," said Calvin. "I should admire to set here a spell, if 'tis warm enough for you. I ripen better in the sun, too;" he twinkled at her. "Is it warm enough for you?" he added anxiously.

"My, yes!" said Mary Sands. "Why, 'tis like summer in this bright sun, and this cellar door is warm as a stove. Well, if you're really a mind to help, Mr. Parks,—I'm sure you're more than kind."

There was plenty of room on the cellar door for them and the tomatoes. Calvin curled up his long legs under him, and gave his attention for several minutes to the Crimson Cushions and Ponderosas, turning them with careful nicety.

"Pretty, ain't they?" he said; "some of 'em, that is."

"Real pretty!" said Mary Sands. "I do enjoy them, Mr. Parks; 'tis a kind of play with me, tending my tomaytoes. I expect I'm foolish about growin' things."

"I expect if there was more had your kind of foolishness," replied Calvin, "the world would be a better place than it is."

"See this one!" Mary went on; "for all the world like a red satin pincushion my grandmother used to have in her basket. 'Tis well named, the Crimson Cushion is."

"Look at this feller," said Calvin, "all green and yeller, and squinnied up like his co't was too tight for him. It looks like the boys; honest now, don't it, Miss Hands?"

Mary tinkled a reproachful laugh.

"Now Mr. Parks, I wonder at you. Poor Cousins!"

"I ain't takin' up no collection for the boys!" said Calvin coolly. "Where's Sam? I see the young colt is out."

"He's gone to market; and Cousin Sims' in a dreadful takin', for fear he'll get run away with, or hove out, or something."

Calvin stared. "Why, the colt is ten year old if he is a day!" he said.

"I told him that; but he said it didn't make no odds, he'd never found out he was grown up, and acted accordin'. He werries terrible about Cousin Sam every time he goes out, and Cousin Sam werries about him. I notice it growin' on the two of 'em. Mr. Parks, I believe that down in their hearts them two are missin' each other more than tongue can tell, and neither one of them knows what's the matter with him."

"You don't say!" said Calvin. "Why don't they make up, then? Ridic'lous old lobsters!"

"They don't know how!" said Mary. "Even if they mistrust what ails 'em, and I don't believe they do as yet."

She was silent a moment, and then added: "Mr. Parks, I feel I can speak out to you, that have been their friend right along. I wish't one of Cousins would marry; there! I do so!"

Calvin Parks's face, which had been radiant with cheerfulness, turned to brown wood. He looked straight before him, with no more expression than the green tomato he held in his hand.

"That so!" he said slowly. "Which—which one of 'em would you consider best suited to matrimony, Miss Hands, if 'tisn't too much to ask?"

"I don't know as I care which it is," cried Mary, earnestly,—Calvin winced, and dropped the tomato, which rolled slowly down the cellar door and plumped into the snow,—"so long as it's one of 'em. They ought to have a woman belongin' to them, Mr. Parks, as would take an interest in things because they was hers, you understand, and care for whichever one she'd marry and the other one too. They'd never ought to have been let act so foolish. You see, they'd always had a woman to do for 'em, and think for 'em, and live for 'em; and the minute she was gone they fell to pieces, kind of; 'tis often so with men folks," she said simply. "They ain't calc'lated to be alone. But even now, if there was a woman belongin' to 'em, that had the right to say how things should be, I believe she could bring 'em together in no time."

There was a long silence, Mary turning tomatoes, Calvin staring straight ahead of him with the same wooden countenance. At length he cleared his throat and spoke slowly and laboriously.

"There's something in what you say, Miss Hands, and I'm bound to confess that—that I've had thoughts of something of the kind before you spoke. But—well, we'll put it this way. Which of them two old—of them two individuals, we'll call 'em for this once—would a woman be likely to fancy? I—I should be pleased to have your opinion on that p'int."

Mary considered, turning the Crimson Cushions meanwhile with a careful hand. Calvin, misunderstanding her silence, went on.

"What I mean is—if a woman was thinkin' of matrimony—" he winced again, seeming to hear Mr. Sam's voice squeaking out the word,—"if a woman was thinkin' of matrimony, and one of them two should take her fancy more than the other—why—a person as was friendly to all concerned might try his hand in the way of helpin' to bring it about."

Mary glanced up quickly at him, but no friendly twinkle responded to her glance. Calvin's brown eyes were still dark with trouble, and he still stared moodily away from her.

"'Tis hard to say!" she replied after a pause. "Cousin Sim needs the most care."

"He does so!" said Calvin Parks. "Sim certinly needs care. And—he's a home-lovin' man, Simeon is, and sober, and honest. There's things you could find in Sim that's no worse than what you'd find in some others, I make no doubt; and—and any one would have a first-rate home, and every comfort."

"Oh! Mr. Parks, but do you think any woman could make up her mind to marry Cousin Sim?" said Mary.

Calvin gave her a bewildered look, and went on, still slowly and laboriously.

"Not bein' a woman myself, ma'am, nor had any special dealin's with the sex since I growed up, it ain't easy for me to form an opinion. But since you ask me honest—well—maybe not! This brings us to Sam'l. Now Sam'l is a man that has his faculties, such as they are. He has his health, and he's smart and capable. A good farmer Sam has always been, and a good manager. Careful and savin'; and there'd be the house, same as in Simeon's case. Anybody would have them a good home, and—"

"Oh! my goodness!" cried Mary Sands. Calvin looked up with a start, and saw her face on fire.

"What is it?" he asked, helplessly.

"Oh! don't you see?" she cried. "I was thinkin' about them, poor old things, and wishin' they might find some one; but you've shown me the other side. Mr. Parks, they never, never, never could find any woman to marry them!"

Calvin Parks's face was a study of bewilderment.

"I—I don't understand!" he faltered. "Do you mean that you wouldn't—couldn't—fancy either one of the boys, Miss Hands?"

"Me!" cried Mary Sands; "me fancy one of them!"

Involuntarily she rose to her feet; Calvin rose too, looking anxiously down at her. There was a moment of tense silence. "Do—do you want me to marry one of them, Mr. Parks?" asked Mary, in a small shaking voice.

"Want you to?" cried Calvin Parks. "Want you to?"

At this moment Mr. Sam came round the corner. Mary Sands fled, and as she ran into the house there floated back from the closing door—was it a sound of laughter—or of tears?

"What in the name of hemlock is goin' on here?" asked Mr. Sam. "Calvin Parks, what are you about, treadin' of them tomaytoes under foot? You've creshed as much as a dozen of 'em under them great hoofs of your'n."

"That you, Sam?" said Calvin Parks. "How are you? I'd shut my mouth if I was you. You look handsomer that way than what you do with it open."



CHAPTER XI

CONCERNING TRADE

It was Christmas week, and East Cyrus was making ready for the festival. The butcher's shop was hung with turkeys and chickens, and bright with green of celery and red of cranberries and apples. The dry-goods store displayed in its window, beside the folds of gingham and "wool goods" and the shirt-waist patterns, a shining array of dolls and sofa-pillows, pincushions and knitted shoes; while the bookstore had all the holiday magazines, and a splendid assortment of tissue paper in every possible shade.

But delightful as all this was to the eyes of East Cyrus, there was one shop that so far outshone the rest that all day long an admiring group of children stood before it, gazing in at the window, and fairly goggling with wonder and longing. This was the shop of Mr. Ivory Cheeseman. Across and across the window were strings of silver tinsel, wonderful enough in themselves, but still more wonderful for the freight they bore; canes of every description, from the massive walking-stick that might have supported Lonzo's giant frame, down to dapper and delicate affairs no bigger than one's little finger; and all made of candy, red and white and yellow. That was a sight in itself, I should hope; but that was not all. The broad shelf beneath was covered with tinsel-sprinkled green, and here were creatures many, cats and lions and elephants, dromedaries and horses and turtles, all in clear barley sugar, red and yellow and white. Chocolate mice there were, too, bigger than the cats as a rule; and flanking these zooelogical wonders, row upon row of shining glass jars, containing every stick that ever was twisted, every drop that ever was dropped.

Inside, a long counter overflowed with the more recondite forms of goodies, caramels, and burnt almonds, chocolate creams and the like; behind this counter a pretty girl stood smiling, ready to dispense delight in any sugary form, at so much a pound.

In the kitchen behind the shop the little stove was glowing like a friendly demon, and beside the long table stood Mr. Cheeseman and Calvin Parks, deep in talk.

"Now you want," said the old man, "to get a good price for these goods, friend Parks. I'm lettin' you have 'em at wholesale price, because you're a man I like, and because I wish to see you well fixed and provided with a partner for life. Now here's your chance, and I'm goin' to speak right out plain. You're a good fellow, but you are not a man of business!"

"That's right!" murmured Calvin meekly. "That's straight, stem to stern."

"I hear about you now and again, in the way of trade," Mr. Cheeseman went on. "Folks come in, and talk a spell; you know how 'tis. I've gone so fur as to ask folks about you, folks whose opinion was worth havin'. They all like you fust-rate; say you're a good feller, none better, but you'll never make good. Ask 'em why, and they tell about your givin' goods away right along; a half a dozen sticks here, a roll of lozengers there, quarter-pounds all along the ro'd so to say. Now, young man, that ain't trade!"

Calvin's slow blood crept up among the roots of his hair. "I don't know as it's any of their darned business!" he said slowly.

"It ain't, nor yet it ain't mine to tell you; nor yet it ain't the wind's; yet it keeps on blowin' just the same, and while you're cussin' it for liftin' your hat off, it's turnin' your windmill for you. See?"

Calvin raised his head with a jerk.

"I see!" he said. "That's straight. I see that, Mr. Cheeseman, and thank you for sayin' it. But—well now, see how 'tis at my end. I'm joggin' along the ro'd, see? hossy and me, who so peart, lookin' for trade. Well, here come a little gal; pretty, like as not,—little gals mostly are, and when they ain't you're sorry enough to make it even—and when she sees us she stops, and hossy stops. He knows! wouldn't go on if I told him to. Say she don't speak a word; say she just looks at me kind o' wishful; what would you do? She's a child, and she wants a stick of candy; that's what I'm there for, ain't it, to see that she gets it? Well! and she hasn't got a cent. What would you do? Would you drive off and leave her cryin' in the ro'd behind you?"

"I would!" said Mr. Cheeseman firmly. "She'd ought to have got a cent from her Ma, and she'll do it next time if you don't give in now."

"Mebbe she has no Ma!" said Calvin gloomily. "Mebbe her Ma's a Tartar."

"That ain't your lookout!" retorted Mr. Cheeseman. "Now, friend Parks, it comes to just this. You put this to yourself straight; are you runnin' a candy route, or an orphan asylum?"

Calvin was silent, gazing darkly at the pan of cinnamon drops before him. Mr. Cheeseman, having driven his nail home, put away his hammer.

"Now about your stock!" he said cheerfully. "You rather run to sticks in your fancy, but if I was you I'd go a mite more into fancy truck Christmas time. Gives 'em a change, and seems more holiday like. Take this lobster loaf, now!"

He laid his hand on a huge mass, chocolate-coated, its side displaying strata of red and white. "This is a good article when you strike a large family or a corner store. It's cheap, and it's fillin'. You let me put you up a couple of loaves; what say?"

"All right!" said Calvin, still gloomily. "What next?"

"Well, here's chicken bones!" and Mr. Cheeseman picked up a handful of short white sticks. "These is good goods; try one!"

Calvin crunched a stick. "Chocolate fillin'?" he said.

"Yes; with just a dite of peanut butter to give it a twist. Children like 'em; like the name, too; makes 'em think of the turkey that's comin'. Two or three pounds of them? That's right! All the sticks, I s'pose? and all the drops? That's it! I expect you to make your fortune this time, and no mistake. Now we come to gum drops! how about them?"

"Well," said Calvin, "I never found gum drops what you'd call real amusin' myself; I like something with a mite more snap to it, don't you?"

"Did, when I had teeth like yours!" Mr. Cheeseman replied. "But you take old folks, or folks that's had their teeth out, and say, 'gum drops' to 'em, and they'll run like chickens. They like something soft, you see. How's your route off for teeth?"

"Why—I don't know as I've noticed specially!" said Calvin, his brown eyes growing round.

"Fust thing a candy man ought to notice! Well, you take a good stock of gum drops, that's my advice. Now come to the animals—what is it, Lonzo?"

Lonzo shambled in from the shop; the tears were running down his platter face, and his huge frame shook with sobs.

"She—she won't give me the el'phant!" he said.

"What elephant? Cheer up, Lonzo! don't you cry, son; Christmas is comin', you know."

"You said—you said—if I cleaned the dishes all up good for Christmas I could take my pick, and I picked the el'phant, and she won't give it to me!"

At this juncture the pretty girl appeared, flushed and defiant.

"Mr. Cheeseman, he wants that big elephant, the handsomest thing in the window; and it's a shame, and he sha'n't have it. I offered him the one you made first, that got its leg broke, and he won't look at it. There's just as much eatin' to it, for I saved the leg."

"I don't want to eat it!" sobbed Lonzo. "I want to love it a spell fust."

Mr. Cheeseman looked grave. "Well!" he said, "we'll see, son! You stop cryin', anyhow."

He went into the shop, Calvin following him, and they looked over the low green curtain into the show-window. In the very centre, towering above the lions, camels and rabbits, stood a majestic white elephant fully a foot high. His tusks were of clear barley sugar; he carried a gilded howdah in which sat an affable personage with chocolate countenance and peppermint turban; the whole was a triumph of art, and Mr. Cheeseman gazed on it with pride, and Calvin with admiration.

"It's the handsomest piece of confectionery I ever saw!" said Calvin with conviction.

"It is handsome, I'm free to confess!" said Mr. Cheeseman. "It cost me consid'able labor, that did. Take it out careful, Cynthy!"

"Mr. Cheeseman! you ain't goin' to give it to Lonzo!" cried the pretty girl indignantly.

"Certin I am!" said the old man. "I told him he should take his pick, and he's taken it. I didn't think of that figger, 'tis true, but what I say I stand to. Easy there! I guess you'd better let me lift it out, Cynthy!"

Very tenderly he lifted out the glittering trophy and placed it in Lonzo's outstretched hands. The simpleton chuckled his rapture, and retired to his dim corner—to worship, one might have thought; he put his prize on a low table and grovelled before it on the floor.

Mr. Cheeseman, heedless of Cynthy's lamentations, proceeded to re-arrange the show-window, trying one effect and another, head on one side and eyes screwed critically. Satisfied at length, he turned slowly and rather reluctantly toward Calvin Parks, who had been standing silently by.

"After all," he said apologetically, "Christmas is for the children, and Lonzo is the Lord's child, my wife used to say, and I expect she was right."

Calvin's twinkle burst into a smile.

"That's all right, Mr. Cheeseman!" he said. "That suits me first-rate. I was only wonderin' whether it was just exactly what you would call trade!"



CHAPTER XII

CALVIN'S WATERLOO

Christmas Eve. All day a blaze of white and gold, softening now into cold glories of rose and violet over the great snow-fields. The road, white upon white, outlined with fringes of trees, and here and there a stretch of stump fence, was as empty as the fields, the solitary sleigh with its solitary occupant seeming only to emphasize the loneliness.

Calvin Parks looked down the long stretch of road into which he had just turned, and gave a long whistle.

"Hossy," he said, "do you know what this ro'd wants? It wants society! I don't know as it would be reasonable to expect a house, or even a barn, but it does seem as if they might scare up a cow; what?"

Hossy whinnied sympathetically.

"Just so!" said Calvin. "That's what I say. Christmas Eve and all, it does really appear as if they might scare up a cow. Not that she'd be likely to trade to any great extent. What say? She'd buy as much as that last woman did? That's so, hossy; you're right there. But we ain't complainin', you and me, I want you to understand. We've done real well this trip, and before we get our little oats to-night we'll work off every stick in the whole concern, you see if we don't, and have money to put in the bank, io, money to put in the bank. Gitty up, you hossy!" He flourished his whip round the brown horse's head and whistled a merry tune.

"Hello! What's up now?"

Some one was standing at the turn of the road ahead, waving to him; a child; a little girl in cloak and hood, her red-mittened hands gesticulating wildly.

"We're a-comin', we're a-comin'!" said Calvin Parks. "Git there just the very minute we git there, you see if we don't. Why, Mittie May! you don't mean to tell me this is you?"

"Oh! yes, please!" cried the child. "Oh! please will you come and see Miss Fidely? oh! please will you?"

"There! there! little un; why, you're all out of breath. Been runnin', have ye?"

"Oh, yes!" panted Mittie May. "I ran all the way, for fear I wouldn't get here before you went by. Will you come and see Miss Fidely, Mr. Candy Man?"

"Well!" said Calvin, "that depends, little gal. There's three p'ints I'd like to consider in this connection and as touchin' this matter, as old parson used to say. First, is Miss Fidely good-lookin' and agreeable to see? Second, does she anyways want to see me? Third, how far off does she live? It's gettin' on towards sundown, and hossy and me have a good ways to go before we get our oats."

"It's not far," said the child. "And she wants to see you terrible bad. Her goods ain't come that she ordered, and the tree's all up, and the boys and girls all comin' to-morrow, and no candy. And I told her about you, and how you mostly came along this road Wednesdays, and she said run and catch you if I could, and I run!"

"I should say you did!" said Calvin. "Now you hop right in here with me, little gal! Hopsy upsy—there she comes! Let me tuck you in good—so! now you tell me which way to go, and hossy and me'll git there. That's a fair division, ain't it?"

Still panting, the child pointed down a narrow cross-road, on which at some distance stood a solitary house.

"That the house?" asked Calvin. Mittie May nodded.

"I hope Miss Fidely ain't large for her size," said Calvin; "she might fit rayther snug if she was."

It was a tiny house, gray and weather-beaten; but the windows were trim with white curtains and gay with flowers; on the stone wall a row of milk-pans flashed back the afternoon sun; the whole air of the place was cheerful and friendly.

"I expect Miss Fidely's all right!" said Calvin with emphasis. "Smart woman, to judge by the looks of her pans, and there's nothing better to go by as I know of. Them's as bright as Miss Hands's, and more than that I can't say. Now you hop out, Mittie May, and ask her will she step out and see the goods, or shall I bring in any special line?"

The child stared. "She can't come out!" she said. "Miss Fidely can't walk."

"Can't walk!" repeated Calvin.

"No! and the path ain't shovelled wide enough for her to come out. Come in and see her, please!"

His eyes very round, Calvin followed the child up the narrow path and in at the low door. Then he stopped short.

The door opened directly into a long, low room, the whole width of the house. The whitewashed walls were like snow, the bare floor was painted bright yellow, with little islands of rag carpet here and there. There were a few quaint old rush-bottomed chairs, and in one corner what looked like a child's trundle-bed, gay with a splendid sunflower quilt. These things Calvin saw afterwards; the first glance showed him only the Tree and its owner. It was a low, spreading tree, filling one end of the room completely. Strings of pop-corn festooned the branches, and flakes of cotton-wool snow were cunningly disposed here and there. Bright apples peeped from amid the green, and from every tip hung a splendid star of tinsel or tin foil. No "boughten stuff" these; all through the year Miss Fidely patiently begged from her neighbors: from the women the tinsel on their button-cards, from the men the "silver" that wrapped their tobacco. Carefully pressed under the big Bible, they waited till Christmas, to become the glory of the Tree. The presents might not have impressed a city child much, for every one was made by Miss Fidely herself; the aprons, the mittens, the cotton-flannel rabbits and bottle-dolls for the tiny ones, the lace-trimmed sachets and bows for the older girls. Mittie May, all forgetful of marble palaces, stole one glance of delighted awe, and then remembered her manners.

"Here's the Candy Man, Miss Fidely!" she said.

Miss Fidely turned quickly; she had been tying an apple to one of the lower branches with scarlet worsted.

"Pleased to meet you!" she said. "Do take a seat, won't you? I can't rise, myself, so you must excuse me!"

Miss Fidely sat in a thing like a child's go-cart on four wheels. Her little withered feet clad in soft leather moccasins peeped out from under her scant brown calico skirt. They could never have supported the strong square body and powerful head, Calvin thought; she must have spent her life in that cart; and at the thought a mist came over his brown eyes. But he took the hard brown hand that was held out to him, and shook it cordially.

"I am real pleased to make your acquaintance!" he said. "Nice weather we're havin'; a mite cold, but 'tis more seasonable that way, to my thinkin'."

"I was so afraid Mittie May wouldn't catch you!" Miss Fidely went on. "I s'pose she's told you my misfortune, sir. I order my candy from a firm in Tupham Centre; and I had a letter this mornin' statin' that they had burned up and lost all their stock, and couldn't fill any orders. 'Twas too late to order elsewhere, and I couldn't make enough for all hands—thirty children I expect to-morrow, and some of 'em comin' from nine or ten miles away—and what to do I didn't know; when all of a sudden Mittie May thought of you. She lives on the next ro'd, not fur from here, Mittie doos, and she helps me get the tree ready; don't you, Mittie May? I don't know what I should do without her, I'm sure."

She smiled at Mittie May, who glowed with pride and pleasure. Calvin thought he had seen only one smile brighter than Miss Fidely's.

"It did seem real providential," she went on, "if only she could catch you, and I'm more than pleased she did. Here's my bags all ready," she pointed to a neat pile that lay on a table beside her; "and if you've got the goods to fill 'em, I guess we sha'n't need to do much bargainin'. I've got the money ready too."

"I guess that's all right!" said Calvin, rising. "I'll bring my stock right in, what's left of it, and you can take your pick. I've sold the heft of it, but yet there's a plenty still to fill them bags twice't over."

"Mittie May, it's time for you to go," said Miss Fidely. "Your Ma'll be lookin' for you to help get supper. Mebbe you can run over to-night to hang the bags, or first thing in the morning."

"I'll hang the bags!" said Calvin Parks.

"Oh!" said Miss Fidely. "You're real kind, but that's too much to ask, isn't it?"

"I guess not!" said Calvin. "I guess I'd rather trim a Christmas Tree than eat my supper any day in the week. You run along, Mittie May; I'll tend to this."

The rose and violet were deepening over the snow-fields, and stars were piercing the golden veil of sunset. Calvin filled the brown horse's nose-bag and hung it over his head, and covered him carefully with the buffalo robe.

"You rest easy a spell, hossy!" he said. "This is trade, you know. Christmas Eve, you can't expect to get to bed real early."

Hossy shook himself, whinnied "All right!" and addressed himself to his supper. Calvin pulled out one drawer after another, studying their contents with frowning anxiety. "She's goin' to have the best there is!" he said. "There's a look in that lady's eyes that puts me in mind of Miss Hands; and take that with her bein' afflicted and all—I guess we'll give her a good set-off, hossy. I guess—that—is—what we'll do!"

While he spoke, he was piling box upon box, jar upon jar, holding the pile firm with his chin. Entering the house again, he deposited them carefully on the table, and proceeded to spread them out.

"There!" he said. "I guess you'll find what you want here. All the candies, stick, drop and fancy; tutti-frutti and pepsin chewing-gum, chocolate creams and marshmallow goods. You didn't say what amount you was calc'latin' to lay out—?"

Miss Fidely looked round her carefully. "I didn't care to say before the little gal!" she said. "My neighbors is real careful of me, and they grudge my spendin' so much money. I tell 'em it's my circus and fair and sociable and spring bunnet all in one. There! I calc'late to spend five dollars, and I've got it to spend. I'm a stranger to you, sir, and mebbe you'd like to see it before we go any further."

"I guess not!" said Calvin Parks. "I guess I know a straight stick when I see one—" his eyes fell on the twisted outlines covered by the brown calico skirt, and he finished his sentence in silence. "Your one comfort," he said, "is that it ain't likely the Lord made another fool like you when he see the way you'd act."

"That's a handsome sum of money," he added aloud. "You'll get a handsome set-out for it."

"I've got no one belongin' to me," said the lame woman simply; "and I'm far from church privileges. I never touch my burial money, but I do feel that I have a right to this. Well! you have got elegant goods, I must say. Now we'll get down to business, if agreeable to you."

It was most agreeable to Calvin Parks, and he made it so to Miss Fidely. She must taste every variety of sugar-plum, so that she could know what she was giving.

"That's trade!" he said, when she remonstrated. "That's straight trade; no samples, no buyers! You try this lemon taffy! I do regard it as extry. These goods is all pure sugar, every mite; I know the man as made 'em, and helped some in the makin'. Some of the pineapple sticks? That's a lovely candy to my mind. I helped make these only yesterday morning. You try a morsel; here's a broken stick!"

"Why, I never had no such candy as this before!" cried Miss Fidely, crunching the white and scarlet stick. "Why, 'tis as different from the goods I've bought before as new-laid eggs is from store. I guess you'll have a steady customer from now on, as many Christmases as I have to live."

"That so?" said Calvin. "Well, I aim to give satisfaction, and so does the man who makes for me. All pure sugar; no glucose, terry alby, nor none of them things, destroyin' folks's stomachs. Nothin' else than poison, some of the stuff you'll find in the market is; but good sugar and good flavorin' is wholesome, I claim, taken moderate, you know, and the system craves it, or so appears to do. Say we commence to fill the bags now, what? And so you toll in the neighborin' children and give 'em a Christmas Tree! Now that's a pleasant thing to do; I don't know as ever I heard of a pleasanter."

Miss Fidely glowed again, and again she looked like Mary Sands. "I've been doin' it for ten years now," she said, "and shall, I expect, as long as the Lord thinks I'm best off here. You see, not havin' the use of my limbs, I can't go much; and I do love children, and they've got the habit of runnin' in here for a cooky or a story or like that. This ain't a wealthy neighborhood; the soil's rather poor; folks has moved away; I scarcely know how it is, but yet 'tis so. And, too, they haven't had the habit of makin' of Christmas same as they do in most places. Some ten year ago I spent a winter in the city. There was a man thought he could cure me of my lameness, or made me think so; and though I was old enough to know better, I give in, and went and let him try. Well, I didn't get any help that way, but I got an amazin' deal other ways. There was a Tree to the hospital where I was, and they carried me in to see it; and I said that minute of time, 'There shan't any child round our way go without a Tree after this, as long as I live!' I says. I count it a great mercy that I've been able to keep that promise. I begin Near Year's day to make my presents—doin' it evenin's and odd times, you know, and 'tis my child's play all the year through till Christmas comes again. They ask me sometimes if I ain't lonesome; any one can't be lonesome, I tell 'em, while they're makin' Christmas presents."

"You don't live all sole alone?" asked Calvin Parks.

"Certin I do! I've no kin of my own, and them as wished to marry me warn't more than what I had time to say no to," she laughed gleefully; "and I wouldn't be bothered with no stranger messin' round. I'm used to myself, you see, but I don't know as any person else could get along with me real well, come to stay right along. I expect I'm as caniptious as an old hen. The neighbors is real good; any one couldn't ask for better help than they be when I need help, but 'tis seldom I do. I'm strong and well, and everything is handy by, as you may say. Only when it comes Christmas, I can't fetch in the tree nor yet mount up to trim the upper branches, and then I have to call on some one. My! ain't you smart? you've got all them bags hung while I've been talkin'. They do look pretty, don't they?"

"They look handsome!" Calvin assented warmly, "they certainly do. But if you'll excuse me takin' a liberty, I think there's just one extry touch this tree needs, and with your permission I'm goin' to put it on. Excuse me a half a minute!"

He ran out, and soon returned beaming with pleasure and good will, his hands full of small tissue paper parcels.

"I had these all wrapped up separate," he said, "'cause they're fraygile. How many children did you say there was? Thirty? Well, if that ain't a nice fit! Here's three dozen left; and not one of them is goin' any further to-night."

He unwrapped the parcels, and displayed to Miss Fidely's wondering eyes dogs, lions, camels, rabbits, all sparkling in barley sugar, all glittering in the sunset light. The lame woman clasped her hands, and her eyes shone.

"Oh!" she cried. "I see the like of them in the hospital; I never see them before or since. I can't believe it's true. Oh! I do believe the Lord sent you, sir!"

"I believe so too!" said Calvin Parks.

Suddenly Miss Fidely's face changed.

"My goodness!" she cried. "I never thought, and I know you never either. I can't take them, sir! I've spent all my money, and more too, I expect, for I know well you give me extry measure in some of them candies. But I'm just as pleased at you takin' the pains to bring 'em in, and the children haven't seen 'em, so there's no harm."

"Now what a way that is to talk!" said Calvin, "for a lady as sensible as you be. Didn't I know you had laid out your money, and a good sum, too? Did you think you was the only person that liked to do a little something for the children Christmas time? Now ain't that a sight! Them's my present to Mittie May and her friends, that's all. Now see me hang 'em on!"

He turned hastily to the tree, for Miss Fidely was crying, and Calvin did not know what the mischief got into women-folks to make 'em act that way. Drawing a ball of pink string from his pocket, he proceeded to hang his menagerie, talking the while.

"I've had quite a time to-day. Any one sees a good deal of human natur' drivin' a candy route, yes sir, I would say ma'am! Hossy and me has come a good ways to-day, and seen 'most all kinds. Are you acquainted any with a woman name of Weazle, down the ro'd about four mile from here? Ain't? Well, she's a case, I tell you. Long skinny kind of woman, looks like she'd bleed sour milk—skim—if she scratched her finger. She made up her mind I was goin' to cheat her, and she warn't goin' to be cheated, not she. Quite a circus we had.

"'How much is them marshmallers?' she says.

"'Twenty cents a pound,' I says.

"'It's too much!' she says.

"'Is that so?' I says.

"'It's scandalous!' she says.

"'I want to know!' I says.

"'You won't sell none at that price!' she says.

"'Is that a fact?' I says.

"'Well, what'll you take for em?' she says.

"'Twenty cents a pound,' I says.

"'I tell you it's too much!' she says.

"'I know it's too much for you,' I says, 'and so is the marshmallows. They might give you the dyspepsy!' I says. 'Gitty up, hossy!' and I druv off and left her standin' there with her mouth open. There! now they're all up and I must be ramblin' along, or I sha'n't get nowheres by the end of time."

Miss Fidely had dried her eyes, but the look she fixed on Calvin disturbed him almost as much as the tears.

"I won't say nothin' more," she said; "I see the kind you are; but I wish you could come in to-morrow and see the children. I expect their faces will be a sight, when they see them elegant presents; yes, sir, I do! I expect you'd never forget this Christmas, as I'm certin I never shall. Oh!" she cried with a sudden outburst. "You good man, I hope you'll get your heart's desire, whatever it is."

"I hope I shall!" said Calvin Parks gravely.

"And now," said Miss Fidely, brightening up, "we'll settle. If you'll just lift the lid of that old teapot standin' on the mantel-shelf, you'll find three one-dollar bills and a two. I wish 'twas a hundred!" she cried heartily.

Calvin Parks stepped to the mantelpiece and lifted the lid of the teapot.

"I guess you made a mistake this time," he said cheerily; "where'll I look next?"

Miss Fidely turned very pale. "What—what do you mean?" she faltered.

Calvin handed her the teapot; it was empty.

"You forgot and put it somewheres else!" he said. "Anybody's liable to do that when they have a thing on their mind. I've done it myself time and again. How about a bureau drawer; what? We'll find it; don't you be scared!"

"No!" said Miss Fidely faintly. "No, sir! it was there. I counted it last night the last thing, and there ain't no one—my Lord! that tramp!"

"What tramp?"

"He came here this morning and asked for some breakfast. He seemed so poor and mis'able, and he told such a pitiful story, I went out to get him a drink of milk—he must have taken it. I remember, he was standin' over there when I come in, but I never mistrusted—"

Her voice failed, and she covered her eyes with her hands. Calvin Parks cast a rapid glance behind him, and ascertaining the position of the door, began to edge quietly toward it.

"Don't you fret!" he said soothingly. "I shall be round this way again some time; mebbe you'll find it some place when you least expect. I've known such things to happen, oftentimes."

"No! no!" cried the cripple, her distress increasing momentarily. "It's gone, sir! The look in that man's face comes back to me, and I know now what it meant. Oh! he must have a hard heart, to rob a cripple woman of her one pleasure, and on Christmas Eve!"

She flung her hands apart with a wild gesture, but the next moment controlled herself and spoke quietly but rapidly. "I am ashamed to trouble you, sir, but if you'll take down the bags I'll empt 'em as careful as I can. I wouldn't trouble you if I could help myself."

"I—I'm afraid I can't stop!" muttered Calvin; and he hung his head as he spoke, for a dry voice was saying in his ear, "Put this straight to yourself; are you running a candy route or an orphan asylum?"

"Oh! if Mittie May would only come!" cried the lame woman. "I'll have to trouble you, sir; it won't take you long."

Calvin mumbled something about calling again.

"No!" cried Miss Fidely. "There'd be no use in your calling again; that's all I can save in a year, and there's no more—"

She stopped short, and the blood rushed into her thin face.

"No!" she said after a pause. "I can't take the burial money, even for the children. Oh! you kind, good man, take down the bags, and take your candy back!"

"I've got to see to my hoss!" cried Calvin irritably. "Hear him hollerin'? Jest wait a half a minute—" he sneaked out of the door, closed it carefully behind him, and bolted for his sleigh. He snatched the nose-bag from Hossy's nose, the robe from his back; clambering hastily in, he cast a guilty glance around him, and saw—Mittie May, standing a few paces off, staring at him round-eyed.

"Here!" he cried. "You tell her I ain't feelin' real well, and I've got to get home. Tell her—tell her my name's Santy Claus, and my address is the North Pole. And—look here! tell her Merry Christmas and Happy New Year, and the same to you! Gitty up, hossy! gitty up!" and laying his whip over the astonished flanks of the brown horse, Calvin Parks fled down the road as if Bluecher and the Prussians were after him.



CHAPTER XIII

MERRY CHRISTMAS

"But that ain't the end of the story, Miss Hands!" said Calvin Parks, after telling as much as he thought proper of the foregoing events. "That ain't the end. This mornin' I stopped down along a piece to wish Merry Christmas to Aaron Tarbox's folks, and I left hossy standin' while I ran into the house. I stayed longer than I intended—you know how 'tis when there's children hangin' round—and when I come out, you may call me mate to a mud-scow if there warn't a feller with his head and shoulders clear inside the back of my cart. I can't tell you how, but some way of it, it come over me in a flash who the feller was. I don't know as ever I moved quicker in my life. I had him by the scruff of his neck and the slack of his pants, and out of that and standin' on his head in a snow-drift before he could have winked more than once, certin.

"'Have you got three ones and a two,' I says, 'belongin' to a lady as sits in a cart, 'bout four mile from here? 'cause if you have, and was keepin' them for the owner, I'll save you the trouble,' I says. He couldn't answer real well, his head bein' in the drift, so I went through his pockets, and sure enough there they was, three ones and a two, just as she said."

"My goodness!" cried Mary Sands. "What did you do?"

"Well, I give him his Christmas present, a good solid one, that'll last him a sight longer than the money would have, and then I hove him back into the drift to cool off a spell,—he was some warm, and so was I,—and come along. So now I've got the money, and that lady can rest easy in her mind; only I've got to let her know. Now, Miss Hands, I'm no kind of a hand at writin' letters; I've been studyin' all the way along the ro'd how to tell that lady that she ain't owin' me a cent; and I don't know as I've hit it off real good."



He felt in his pockets, and produced a scrap of paper; with an anxious eye on Mary Sands, he read aloud as follows.

"Dear Ma'am;—I got that money and give the feller one instead, so no more and received payment from yours respy C. Parks."

"How's that, Miss Hands? Will it do, think?"

Mary's eyes twinkled. "It's short and sweet, Mr. Parks," she said; "it tells the story, certin, though I don't doubt but she'd be pleased to hear more from you."

"That's all I've got to say!" said Calvin simply; "I'm glad to get it off my mind. How's the boys this morning?"

"That's why I made an errand out here before you went into the house!" said Mary Sands.

They were sitting in the harness-room, she in the chair, he on the bucket. There was a fire in the stove, and the place was full of the pleasant smell of warm leather. Their speech was punctuated by the stamping and neighing of the brown horse, the young colt, the old horse of all, the mare, and Old John, in the stable adjoining.

Mary Sands' hazel eyes were full of a half-humorous anxiety.

"I wanted to talk to you a little about Cousins!" she said. "They've been actin' real strange the past week, ever since you was here last. Honest, I don't believe they've thought of one single thing besides each other. Werryin' and frettin' and watchin'—I'm 'most worn out with 'em. There! if it warn't so comical I should cry, and if it warn't so pitiful I should laugh. That's just the way I feel about it, Mr. Parks."

"Sho!" said Calvin sympathetically. "I don't wonder at it, Miss Hands, not a mite. They haven't got round to speakin' to each other yet, I s'pose?"

Mary shook her head. "No!" she said. "They want to, I'm sure of that, but yet neither one of 'em will speak first. Such foolishness I never did see. Now take yesterday! Cousin Sam went to town, and Cousin Sim werried every single minute he was gone. The mare was skittish, and the harness might break, and he might meet the cars, and I don't know what all. If he called me off my work once he did a dozen times, till I thought I should fly. By the time Cousin Sam got back he was all worn out, and soon as he heard him safe in the house he dropped off asleep in his chair. Well! then 'twas all to do over again with Cousin Sam. How had Simeon been, and what had he been doin' while he was gone, and didn't I think he had a bad color at breakfast? Then Cousin Sim begun to snore, and Cousin Sam would have it that 'twarn't natural snorin', and he must be in a catamouse condition."

"What did he mean by that?" asked Calvin.

"That's what he said!" Mary replied. "It's a medical term, but I don't know as he got it just right. It means sleepin' kind of heavy and unhealthy, I understand. 'Well,' I says, 'Cousin Sam, just you step here and look at Cousin Sim!' So he did, and see him sound asleep with his mouth open, lookin' peaceful as a fish. He stood and looked at him a spell, and I see his mouth begin to work. 'There's nothin' catamouse about that sleep, Cousin!' I says. 'There couldn't a baby sleep easier than what he is.' He shakes his head mournful. 'Simeon's aged terrible since Ma went,' he says. He stood there lookin' at him a spell longer, and then he give a kind of groan and went back to his own chair.

"Now, Mr. Parks, it's time this foolishness was put a stop to."

"That's right!" said Calvin Parks. "That's so, Miss Hands. I believe you've got a plan to stop it, too."

"I have!" said Mary Sands. "I've been studyin' it out while I was settin' here waitin' for you. This is Christmas Day, Mr. Parks; and if you'll help me, I believe we can bring it about to-day. Will you?"

"Will I?" said Calvin Parks. "Will a dog bark?"

* * * * *

"Merry Christmas, Sam!" said Calvin Parks.

"Same to you, Calvin, same to you!" said Mr. Sam. "Come in! come in! Shet the door after you, will ye?"

Calvin shut the door into the entry. Mr. Sam glanced about him uneasily.

"You might shet the other too, if you don't mind!" he said. "Thank ye! Have you seen Simeon this mornin', Calvin?"

"Not yet," said Calvin. "I come straight in the front door and in here. What's the matter? Ain't he all right?"

"Simeon is failin'!" replied Mr. Sam. "He's failin' right along, Calvin. I expect this is the last Christmas he'll see on earth. I—I was down street yesterday," he added, after a solemn pause, "and it occurred to me he hadn't had a new pair of slippers for a dog's age. I thought I'd get a pair, and mebbe you'd give 'em to him."

"Mebbe I'd stand on my head!" retorted Calvin. "Give 'em to him yourself, you old catnip!"

"No! no, Calvin! no! no! I'd ruther you would!" said Mr. Sam anxiously. "I'd take it real friendly if you would, sir!"

"Well, we'll see!" said Calvin. "Hello! dressed up for Christmas, be ye?"

Mr. Sam looked down in some embarrassment. His red flannel waistcoat was replaced by a black one.

"We never made so much of Christmas as some," he said; "but yet Ma allers had us dress up for Christmas dinner, and I thought this seemed a mite more dress, you understand, Calvin. What say?"

"Looks first-rate!" said Calvin cheerfully. "You don't look a mite worse than you did before, as I see. Now I guess I'll step in and pass the time of day with Sim."

"Hold on jest a minute!" said Mr. Sam anxiously. "Hold on jest a half a minute, Cal! That ain't all I was wishful to say to you. Have you—I would say—have you approached that subject we was speakin' of a while back, to Cousin?"

"What subject?" said Calvin Parks doggedly.

"Don't be cantankerous, Calvin! now don't!" said Mr. Sam. "It's Christmas Day. The subject of matrimony, you know."

"I have!" said Calvin. "She won't look at him! She wouldn't look at him if the only other man in the world was Job Toothaker's scarecrow, that scared the seeds under ground so they never came up. There's your answer!"

"Dear me sirs!" cried Mr. Sam, wringing his hands. "Dear me sirs! I don't know what's goin' to become of us, Calvin, I reelly don't!"

"Well!" said Calvin; "I guess likely you'll werry through the day, Sam. I know what's goin' to become of me; I'm goin' in to see Sim."

"Take the slippers, won't ye, Calvin?" cried Mr. Sam. "Tell him to wear 'em and save his boots. He's allers ben terrible hard on shoe-leather, Simeon has."

Calvin took the slippers with a grunt, and went into the next room, closing the door after him.

"Merry Christmas!" he cried. "How are you, Sim?"

"I'm obliged to you, Calvin; I am slim!" replied Mr. Sim. "I am unusual slim, sir. Take a seat, won't you?"

"I said Merry Christmas!" Calvin remarked gruffly. "Can't you speak up in the way of the season? Come, buck up, old timothy-grass! Merry Christmas!"

"Merry Christmas!" echoed Mr. Sim meekly; "though if your laigs was as bad as mine, Calvin, you might think different. If I get through this winter—what you got there?"

"Slippers!" said Calvin. "Christmas present from Sam. Wants you to wear 'em and save shoe-leather."

"The failin's of Sam'l's mind," said Mr. Sim gravely, "are growin' on him ekal to those of his body. Shoe-leather! when I ain't stepped foot outside the door since Ma died. But they are handsome, certin; you may thank him for me, Calvin."

"May!" said Calvin. "That's a sweet privilege, no two ways about that. Hello! what in Tunkett—" he stopped, abruptly, staring. "Splice my halyards if you haven't got a red one!" Mr. Sim glanced down with shy pride at his waistcoat.

"Christmas Day, you know, Calvin!" he said. "We allers made some little change in our dress, sir, for Christmas dinner. I thought 'twould please Ma, and Cousin, and—and the other one, too!" he added, with a furtive glance toward the door.

"Well, I am blowed!" said Calvin Parks plaintively. "I certinly am this time. You boys is too much for me."

Mr. Sim coughed modestly, and cast another coy glance at the red waistcoat. "How is poor Sam'l this mornin', Calvin?" he asked mournfully. "Do you find him changed much of any?"

"I do not!" said Calvin. "He's just about as handsome, and just about as takin' as he was last time, fur as I see."

"Ah!" sighed Mr. Sim. "You don't see below the surface, Cal."

"Nor don't wish to!" retorted Calvin. "That's quite sufficient for me."

"I've got the feelin' in my bones," Mr. Sim went on, "that somethin' is goin' to happen to Sam'l, Calvin. He's that reckless, sir, I look 'most any day to see him brought home a mangled remain. Call it a warnin', or what you will, I believe it's comin'. I hear him cuttin' round them corners, and reshin' in and out the yard with them wild hosses,—"

"Wild hosses!" repeated Calvin Parks. "Sim Sill, you feel in your pants pocket, won't you, and see if you can't scare up some wits, just a mite. Old John is thirty if he's a day, and the old hoss of all—well, nobody knows how old he is, beyond that he'll never see forty again. The mare has been here ever since I can remember, or pretty nigh, and your Ma bought the young colt before ever I went to sea. Now talk about wild hosses!"

"It ain't their age, Cal, it's their natur'!" responded Mr. Sim with dignity. "That mare, sir, has never ben stiddy, nor yet will she ever so be, in my opinion."

"Well!" said Calvin Parks. "I'll tell him next time he goes to market, tie her to the well-sweep and walk; you don't cal'late his legs would up and run away with him, do ye? Now I'm goin' to help Miss Hands dish up dinner."

"Hold on, Calvin! hold on jest a minute!" cried Mr. Sim anxiously. "I've got a little present I'd like for you to give Sam'l from me, sir. It's—" he got up, shuffled across the room, and opened a cupboard door. "It's something he's allers coveted."

Fumbling in a box, he took out an ancient seal of red carnelian, and rubbed it lovingly on his coat-sleeve.

"Belonged to Uncle Sim Penny," he said. "Ma give it to me, on accounts of me bein' his name-son; I don't know as ever I've used it, or likely to, and Sam'l has always coveted it. You give that to Sam'l, Calvin, will you?"

"Oh molasses!" said Calvin impatiently. "Give it to him yourself, you ridic'lous old object!"

"No! no, Calvin! no, no, sir!" cried Mr. Sim piteously. "We don't speak, you know; we—we've lost the habit of it, and we're too old to ketch holt of it again. You give it to him, Cal, like a good feller! And—and there's another thing, Calvin. Did you have any dealin's with Cousin about what we was speakin' of some time along back, in regards to Sam'l?"

"I did!" said Calvin Parks.

"Well—well, Cal, what did she say?" Mr. Sim leaned forward anxiously. "Was she anyways favorable, sir?"

"She was not!" replied Calvin. "She give me to understand—not in so many words, but that was the sense of it,—that she'd full as soon marry a cucumber-wood pump as him, or you either. So there you have it!"

"Dear me!" cried Mr. Sim; and he wrung his hands with the identical gesture that Mr. Sam had made. "Dear me sirs! what is to become of us, Calvin?"

"Dinner is ready, Cousin Sim!" said Mary Sands, putting her head in at the door. "Cousin Sam, dinner's ready! Merry Christmas to you, Mr. Parks, and pleased to see you!"



CHAPTER XIV

AT LAST!

Mr. Sim shuffled in from one door, Mr. Sam from the other. As each raised his eyes to look at the table, he saw the figure opposite; both stopped short, and the two pairs of little gray eyes glared, one at a black waistcoat, the other at a red.

"Take your seats, Cousins, please!" said Mary Sands, quickly. "Mr. Parks, if you'll set opposite me—that's it! The Lord make us thankful, Cousins and Mr. Parks, this Christmas Day, and mindful of the wants of others, amen! You said you didn't mind carvin', Mr. Parks, so I've give you the turkey."

The four gray eyes, releasing the waistcoat buttons opposite, glanced furtively over the table, and opened wide. Never had the Sill farm seen a Christmas dinner like this. "Ma" had liked a good set-out, but she aimed to be saving, holidays and all days. They always had a turkey, but it was apt to be the smallest hen in the flock, and the rest was to match. But here,—here was the Big Young Gobbler, the pride and glory of the poultry yard, no longer ruffling it in black and red, but shining in rich golden brown, with strings of nut-brown sausages about his portly breast. Here was cranberry sauce, not in a bowl, but moulded in the wheat-sheaf mould, and glowing like the Great Carbuncle. Here was an Alp of potato, a golden mountain of squash, onions glimmering translucent like moonstones, the jewels of the winter feast, celery tossing pale-green plumes—good gracious! celery enough for a hotel, Mr. Sam thought; here beside each plate was a roll—was this bread, Mr. Sim wondered, twisted into a knot and shining "like artificial?" and on each roll a spray of scarlet geranium with its round green leaf. And what—what was that in the middle of the table? The twins forgot the waistcoats; forgot the waste too, forgot even each other, and stared with all their eyes. A castle! a real castle, towers and battlements, moat and drawbridge, all complete, all sparkling in crystal sugar. From the topmost turret a tiny pennon floating; in the gateway a knight on horseback, nearly as large as the pennon, with fairy lance couched. It was the triumph of Mr. Ivory Cheeseman's life.



"You take that to your lady friend," he said, "and say the man as made it wishes her well, and you too, friend Parks, you too!"

Mary Sands was gazing at it with delighted eyes.

"Did you ever, Cousins?" she said. "Now did you ever see anything so handsome as that? It's a Christmas present from Mr. Parks, and it beats any present ever I had in my life. I declare, this is a Christmas, isn't it, Cousins? and look at you both dressed up to the nines, and lookin' real—" she caught Calvin's eye over the turkey, and faltered,—"real nice, I'm sure! And each one of you changin' his vest for Christmas! I'm sure it's real smart of you. Cousin Sim's got on his new slippers, Cousin Sam! Cousin Sim, you see Cousin Sam's got the seal on, and don't it look elegant? Why, I'm just as proud of you both! Now you want to make a good dinner, Mr. Parks and Cousins, or I shall think it isn't good, and I own I've done my best."

"Good!" said Calvin Parks, as he handed a solid ivory slab to Mr. Sim; "if there's a better dinner than this in the State of Maine, the folks wouldn't get over it, I expect. I've seen dinners served from the Roostick down to New Orleans, and I never see the ekal of this for style nor quality."

"I'm sure you are more than kind to say so!" said Mary Sands. "Dear me! times like this, any one thinks of days past and gone, don't they? You must have had real good times Christmas, when you was boys together, Mr. Parks, Cousins and you together."

"Well, I guess!" said Calvin Parks. "Sam, do you rec'lect one time I come over to spend Christmas Day with you when we was little shavers about ten year old, and we left the pig-pen gate open, and the pigs got all over the place? Gorry! do you rec'lect the back door stood open, and nothin' to it but old Marm Sow must projick right into the kitchen where your Ma was gettin' dinner? Haw! haw! do you rec'lect that?"

"He! he!" piped Mr. Sam; "I guess I do! and Ma up and basted her hide with hot gravy! My Juniper, how she hollered!"

Mr. Sim fixed Mary Sands with a glittering eye. "You tell him 'twarn't gravy, 'twas puddin' sauce!" he said.

"Cousin Sam, Cousin Sim says 'twas puddin' sauce!" said Mary Sands cheerfully.

"Think likely 'twas!" said Mr. Sam. "Tell him he's right for once, and put that down on his little slate."

"Then another time," Calvin went on; "another morsel, Miss Hands? just a scrap? can't? now ain't that a sight! I can, just as easy—watch me now! I rec'lect well, that Methody parson was here with his boy. What was his name? Lihu, was it, or 'Liphalet?"

"'Liphalet!" said Mr. Sim, a faint twinkle coming into his dim eyes. "'Liphalet Pinky!"

"'Liphalet Pinky! that's it!" Calvin laid down his knife and fork to slap his thigh. "Jerusalem crickets! how we did play it on that unfort'nate youngster! Miss Hands, you see Sim settin' there, sober as a judge; you'd think he'd been like that all his life now, wouldn't you? You'd never think he'd get an unfort'nate boy into the bucket and h'ist him up and down the well till he was e'enamost scairt to death, would you now?"

"I certin should not!" cried Mary Sands gleefully. "Why, Cousin Sim!"

"And he hollerin' all the time, 'Lemme out! I'll tell Pa on you, and he'll call down the wrath to come! You lemme out!' and then we'd slack on the old sweep and down he'd go again—haw! haw!"

"He! he!" cackled Mr. Sim, rubbing his little withered hands. "I can see the tossel on his cap now, bobbin' up and down, and his little picked nose under it—he! he!"

"Ho! ho!" chimed in Mr. Sam suddenly. "And I can see you—I mean, tell him I can see him bobbin' up and down on Ma's knee when she spanked him for it."

"That's too long to say," said Mary Sands placidly; "think likely he heard it, didn't you, Cousin Sim?"

"Tell him he got jest as good!" retorted Mr. Sim.

"Cousin Sam, Cousin Sim says you got it just as good!" said Mary. "Now, Mr. Parks, if you're a mind to carry the turkey out while I bring in the pies—if nobody'll have any more, that is to say!"

"Well!" said Calvin Parks, rising and lifting the huge platter; "if all had eat what I have, there'd be nothin' to carry out, that's all I have to say. After you, Miss Hands!"

He closed the pantry door cautiously after him.

"How do you think it's goin'?" he asked eagerly.

"Splendid!" cried Mary Sands under her breath. "It's goin' splendid! They've looked at each other much as four or five times, and twice they only just stopped in time or they'd have spoke to each other. I saw Cousin Sam catch his breath and fairly choke the words back. Keep right on as you are, Mr. Parks, and we'll have 'em talkin' in another hour, see if we don't!"

The pies—such pies!—had come and gone. With furtive blinks, Mr. Sam had unbuttoned the lower buttons of a black, Mr. Sim of a red waistcoat; they leaned back in their chairs, their sharp little features relaxed, and they stirred their coffee with the air of men at peace with the world.

Calvin Parks bent over his cup with an attentive look.

"Boys," he said pensively, "warn't this your Ma's cup?"

The twins started, and looked at the dark blue cup with gold on the handle.

"It was so!" said Mr. Sam.

"Certin!" said Mr. Sim.

"I thought so!" said Calvin. "Miss Hands, you ought to have this cup by rights; and yet I'm pleased to have it, for I thought a sight of the boys' Ma, and she knowed it. She was always good to me, if she did call me a rover; always good to me she was, from the time I was knee high to a grasshopper. The boys was bigger than me in those days, Miss Hands; I dono as you'd think it now, but so it was. They stopped growin' at the same time; didn't you, boys? Along about fourteen year old, warn't it? You've been just the same height since then, haven't ye?"

"I'm a mite the tallest!" said Mr. Sam, raising his head.

"Tell him it ain't so!" piped Mr. Sim. "Tell him I am!"

"Sho!" said Calvin Parks. "I don't believe either one of you has the least idee, reelly. If there was any difference, I should say Sim was just a shade the tallest; how does it look it to you, Miss Hands?"

"I think Cousin Sam is!" replied Mary Sands promptly.

"You don't say!" said Calvin. "Now that's queer! Looks to me—well! I say, let's find out! 'Tis easy done. Come on into the front room, boys, and stand back to back, and I'll measure ye!"

The front room was open in honor of Christmas Day; "Ma's" best parlor, with its cross-stitch embroideries, its mourning pictures, its rigid black horse-hair chairs and sofas. Above the mantelpiece, with its tall vases of waving pampas grass, "Ma" herself gazed down from a portentous gold frame with a quelling glance; "Pa" hung beside her, a meek young man with a feeble smile of apology; one could understand that he had backed out of existence as soon as might be. In one corner stood a tall dim mirror, and before it a little double chair of quaint shape, evidently made for two children.

"Sho!" said Calvin Parks. "How did that chair come here? Why, I haven't seen that for forty year. Jerusalem! that takes me back—why, Sim and Sam, it seems only yesterday, the first time ever I set foot in this room, and there sat you two in that little chair gogglin' at me, and your Ma standin' beside you. Say, boys, that kind of takes holt of me! your Ma was a good woman, if she did know her own mind. Well, we're all poor creatur's. Here! you stand back to back in front of the glass, and then I can see—hold your chins up—shoulders back; shoulders back, Sim! don't scrooch down that way; you ain't really a crab, you know—head up, Sam! there! now shut your eyes; any one can stand straighter with their eyes shut; now,—"

A voice spoke from the doorway; a woman's voice, full and clear, with a sharp ring of decision.

"Now you love each other pretty, right away, or I'll take the back of the hairbrush to you both!"

"Ma!" cried the twins; and they fell on their knees beside the little chair.

* * * * *

"I told 'em shut their eyes, and then slipped out!" said Calvin Parks. "They never missed me. Jerusalem! Miss Hands, if you'll excuse the expression, how did you manage it? you got her tone to the life, I tell you."

"I always had the trick of followin' a voice," said Mary Sands modestly. "And I remembered Cousin Lucindy's to Conference, for she used to speak an amazin' deal. Oh! Mr. Parks, listen! do listen to them two poor old creatur's!"

They listened. From the front room came a babble of talk, two voices flowing together in a stream, pauseless, inseparable; so fast the stream flowed, there seemed no time for breathing. But now, as the conspirators listened, dish-cloth in hand and joy in their hearts, the voices ceased for a moment, and then, with one consent, broke out into quavering, squeaking, piping song.

"Old John Twyseed; Old John Twyseed; Biled his corn, As sure's you're born, And come to borrow my seed.

"Old John Twyseed, Bought a pound o' rye seed; Paid a cent, And warn't content, But thought 'twas awful high seed.

"Old John Twyseed, Sold his neighbor dry seed; Didn't sprout; Says he 'Git out! I thought 'twas extry spry seed!'"



CHAPTER XV

BY WAY OF CONTRAST

"I wish't you could stay to supper!" said Mary Sands.

"I wish't I could!" said Calvin. "I want you to understand that right enough; and I guess you do!" he added, with a look that brought the color into Mary's wholesome brown cheek. "But they plead with me kind o' pitiful, and—honest, I'm sorry for them two women, Miss Hands. They don't seem to be real pop'lar with the neighbors—I don't know just how 'tis, but so 'tis,—and they kind o' look to me, you see. You understand how 'tis, don't you, Mary—I would say Miss Hands?"

"I expect I do, Mr. Parks!" said Mary gently, yet with some significance.

Calvin looked down at her, and his heart swelled. An immense wave of tenderness seemed to flow from him, enfolding the little woman as she stood there, so neat and trim in her blue cashmere dress, her pretty head bent, the light playing in the waves of her pretty hair.

"For two cents and a half," Calvin Parks said silently, "I'd pick you up and carry you off this minute of time. You're my woman, and don't you forget it!" Then he spoke aloud, and his voice sounded strange in his ears.

"You and the boys," he said, "are always askin' me for stories. If—if I should come and tell you a story some day—the very first day I had a right to—that the boys warn't goin' to hear, nor anybody else but just you—would you listen to it, Miss Hands?"

Mary's head bent still lower, and she examined the hem of her apron critically. "I expect I would, Mr. Parks!" she said softly.

But when Calvin had driven off, chirrupping joyfully to the brown horse, Mary's little brown hands came together with a clasp, and she looked anxiously after him.

"If they don't get you away from me!" she said. "Oh! my good, kind,—there! stupid dear, if they don't get you away from me!"

* * * * *

"Hossy," said Calvin; "do you feel good? Do you? Speak up!"

The brown horse shook his head as the whip cracked past his ear, and whinnied reproachfully.

"Sho!" said Calvin. "You don't mean that. I know it's a mite late, but we'll get there, and you're sure of a good supper, whatever I be. But we've had us a great day, little hossy! we've had us a great day. Them two poor old mis'able lobster-claws is j'ined together, and betwixt the two they'll make a pretty fair lobster, take and humor 'em, and kind of ease 'em along till they get used to each other again. And they ain't the only ones that's feelin' good, little hossy; no siree and the bob-cat's tail! You take them four good-lookin' legs of your'n round the Lord's earth, and if you find a happier man than little Calvin is to-night, I'll give you a straw bunnet for Easter. Put that in your—well, not exactly pipe and smoke it—say nose-bag and smell it! Gitty up, you little hossy!" He flourished the whip round the head of the brown horse, who, catching the holiday spirit, flung up his heels incontinent, and broke into a canter even as his master broke into song.

"Now Renzo had a feedle, That's what Renzo had, tiddy hi! 'Twas humped up in the meedle, So haul the bowline, haul! He played a tune, and the old cow died, And the skipper and crew jumped over the side, And swum away on the slack of the tide, So haul the bowline, haul!"

The moon came up over the great snow-fields, and the world from ghostly white flashed into silver and ebony. The "orbed maiden" seemed to smile on Calvin Parks as he jogged along the white road; perhaps in all her sweep of vision she may have seen few things pleasanter than this middle-aged lover.

"Looks real friendly, don't she?" said Calvin. "And no wonder! Christmas night, and a prospect like this; it's what I call sightly! I wish't I had my little woman along to see it with me; don't you, hossy? What say? You speak up now, when I talk to you about a lady! Where's your manners?"

The whip cracked like a pistol shot, and the brown horse flung up his heels again from sheer good will, and whinnied his excuses.

"Now you're talkin'!" said Calvin Parks. "And you'd better, little hossy. I want you to understand right now that if you warn't the hossy you are—and if two-three other things were as they ain't—summer instead of winter, for one of 'em—it ain't ridin' I'd be takin' that little woman, no sir! I'd get her aboard the Mary Sands, and we'd go slippin' down along shore, coastwise, seein' the country slidin' past, and hear the water lip-lappin', and the wind singin' in the riggin,'—what? I tell you! there'd be a pair of vessels if ever the Lord made one and man the other.

"Sho! seein' in that paper that Cap'n Bates was leavin' the Mary and goin' aboard a tug has got me worked up, kind of. If it warn't that I had sworn off rovin' and rollin' for ever more—I tell you! Jerusalem! but I'd like to hear the Mary talkin' once more—never was a vessel had a pleasanter way of speakin'—there again they're alike, them two. Take her with all sails drawin', half a gale o' wind blowin', and if she don't sing, that schooner, then I never heard singin,' that's all. And even in a calm, just lying rollin' on a long swell, and she'll say 'Easy does it! easy does it! breeze up soon, and Mary knows it!' and the water lip-lappin', and the sails playin' 'Isick and Josh, Isick and Josh,'—great snakes! Gitty up, hossy, or I shall take the wrong turn and drive to Bath instead of Tinkham."

Spite of moonlight and good spirits, the way was long, and it was near nine o'clock when Calvin drove in at the Widow Marlin's gateway. He whistled, a cheerful and propitiatory note, as he drove past the house to the barn.

"Presume likely they'll be put out some at me bein' late," he said; "but you shall have your supper first, hossy, don't you be afeared! They can't no more than kill me, anyway, and I don't know as they'd find it specially easy to-night."

The house was ominously silent as Calvin entered. The kitchen was empty, and he opened the door of the sitting-room, but paused on the threshold. Miss Phrony Marlin was sitting in the corner, weeping ostentatiously, with loud and prolonged sniffs. Her mother, a little withered woman like crumpled parchment, cowered witch-like over the air-tight stove, and looked at Calvin and then at her daughter, but said nothing.

"Excuse me!" said Calvin, stepping back. "I'll go into the kitchen. I didn't know; no bad news, I hope, Mis' Marlin?"

"She's all broke up!" said the old woman.

"So I see. Anything special happened?"

"Oh! you cruel man!" moaned Miss Phrony from the corner.

"Who?" said Calvin. "Me? Now what a way to talk! What's the matter, Miss Phrony? What have I done? Why, I haven't been here since breakfast time."

"That's it!" said the widow. "She's ben lookin' for you all afternoon, and she had extry victuals cooked for you, and you never come."

"Now ain't that a sight!" said Calvin cheerily. "Why, I told you I'd most likely be late, don't you rec'lect I did? We've been a long ways to-day, hossy and me have. How about them victuals, now? I could eat a barn door, seem's though."

"How long was you at them Sillses?" demanded Miss Phrony, wiping her eyes elaborately. "You didn't keep them waitin', I'll be bound."

"Why, I took dinner with 'em," said Calvin, indulgently. "I told you I was goin' to, you know. Gorry! you wouldn't have wanted me here to dinner if you'd seen the way I ate. How was your chicken, old lady? He looked like a good one. I picked out the best nourished one I could find."

"I wish't those folks was dead, and you too, and me, and everybody!" broke out Miss Phrony suddenly.

"Sho!" said Calvin Parks. "The whole set out, eh? Now I am surprised at you. Just think what all them funerals would come to; why, we should have to call on the town, certin we should. Come now, Miss Phrony, cheer up! I'll go and get my own supper, if you'll tell me what to get."

"The Lord will provide!" piped up the old woman shrilly.

"I don't doubt it," said Calvin Parks. "I'll kind o' look round, though; I don't want to give no trouble."

"If you'll set down, Cap'n Parks," said Miss Phrony majestically, "I'll get your supper."

Once more wiping her eyes, she sailed out of the room. Calvin looked after her meditatively. "I didn't think of her scarin' up a tantrum," he said, "or mebbe I'd have hastened more. I dono, though. Christmas Day, appears as though a man had a right to his time, don't it? Not that I ain't sorry to have discumbobberated her, for I am. I'd like to see everybody well content to-night, same as I be."

"She says you're breakin' her heart!" said the old woman, her black eyes fixed on him.

"Sho! now what a way that is to talk! Why, s'pose I hadn't come home at all; s'pose I'd stopped to supper, as they asked me to; you'd have saved victuals then, don't you see? I wish't I had now!" he added reflectively. "I never thought of her cookin' anything special."

* * * * *

"Supper's ready!" sighed Miss Phrony from the doorway.

In the kitchen a cloth, not too clean, was laid, and on it, with much parade of knife and fork, appeared a very dry knuckle of ham, a plate of yellow soda biscuit, and a pallid and flabby pie. Spite of himself, Calvin's cheery face fell as he looked on this banquet; but he sat down, and attacked the ham-bone manfully.

"How are ye, old feller?" he said. "I certinly thought I'd seen the last of you, but you come of a long-lived stock, that's plain. Could I have a drop of tea, Miss Phrony? Seems' though something hot would help this spread on its downward way. Fire out? Well, never mind! I'll get along."

"I had the spasms come on so bad," said Miss Phrony, "along about eight o'clock, when I give you up, my stren'th went from me, and I couldn't heave the wood to keep the fire up. I had coffee for you, but it's cold. Would you like some?"

"I guess not!" said Calvin, recalling the coffee at breakfast. "I'll do first-rate. Well! did you try on your tippet, what? real becomin', was it?"

Miss Phrony's face softened, and she gave him a languishing glance—with one eye, the other trying to see what it was like, with little success.

"'Tis elegant!" she said. "'Tis the handsomest ever I saw. I've put it away—for the future!"

"Sho!" said Calvin. "You don't want to do that. You want to wear it to meetin' next Sunday, Miss Phrony. Any one oughtn't to wait too long to look handsome, you know, fear they mightn't get round to it."

"Oh! not next Sunday, Cap'n Parks!" cried Miss Phrony, with another languishing glance. "That is too suddin! The Sunday after, p'raps, if you will have it so."

"Just as you say!" said Calvin, struggling with a specially dry chip of ham. "The sooner the better, Miss Phrony, if things is as you said."

"Have some pie!" cried the lady with sudden tenderness. "Do! I made it o' purpose for you, Cap'n!"

"Did!" said Calvin, and he eyed the pie gravely. "Well, just a leetle portion, Miss Phrony! I made a hearty dinner, and—mince, is it, or—or what?" he added, after the first mouthful. "I don't seem to recognize the flavor."

"It's Pie-fillene!" said Miss Phrony complacently. "I got a sample package when I was over to the Corners, and I saved it for you."

"Now that was real thoughtful of you!" said Calvin.

"Do you like it?" asked the maiden coyly.

"It's consid'able different from mince!" said Calvin. "Yes, it is a remarkable pie," he added, after a second bite; "no two ways about that. I never tasted one like it. Do you s'pose I could have just a mite of butter on this biscuit, Miss Phrony?"



Miss Phrony assented, and went into the pantry. Then, with one swift, stealthy motion, Calvin Parks transferred the portion of pie from his plate to the stove, replaced the stove-cover noiselessly, and was in his seat and gazing placidly at his empty plate before Miss Phrony appeared with the butter.

"Why, you've eat your pie real speedy!" she cried joyfully.

"It's all gone!" said Calvin soberly. "Not a mite left. No—no thank you, not another morsel! but it certinly is a remarkable pie. Now if you'll excuse me, I'll go in and have a pipe with the old lady."

"So do!" said Miss Phrony graciously. "I'll be in as soon as I've done the dishes, Cap'n."

"Don't hasten!" said Calvin Parks earnestly.

Old Mrs. Marlin was still cowering over the stove, her fingers spread like a bird's claws.

"Did you like your supper, Cap'n?" she asked, as Calvin entered.

"That's what!" replied Calvin enigmatically.

"It's all dust and ashes!" said the old lady unexpectedly.

"Well!" said Calvin. "I dono as I'd go so fur as that, quite, but it was undeniable dry."

"Jesus'll kerry me through!" the widow went on, rocking herself back and forth. "Dust and ashes, and Jordan rollin' past, rollin' past!" Her eyes glittered, and her voice rose in a sing-song whine.

"Hold on there, old lady," said Calvin Parks. "Come out o' that now, and let's be sociable Christmas night. I dono as you'd think it right and proper to allow of me smokin', what?"

The glitter died out of the old lady's eyes; she stopped rocking, and cackled gleefully; this time-worn joke never failed to delight her. With eager, trembling fingers she brought out a cob pipe from a corner behind the stove, and handed it to Calvin, who filled it from his own pouch and returned it to her. Then he lighted his own pipe, and soon they were puffing in concert. In the pantry close by Miss Phrony was rattling dishes; they sounded like dry bones.

"There!" said Calvin comfortably. "Now you feel better, don't you, old lady?"

The old lady nodded like a Salem mandarin.

"Jordan ain't rollin' so fast now, is it?"

"Nothin' like!" said the old lady.

"Then, since we're all comfortable and peaceful," said Calvin, "I've half a mind to tell you something, old lady."

He paused and seemed to listen; his next words were spoken silently.

"What say? Oh, you go along! I tell you I've got to tell some one, or I shall bust. I can't fetch hossy into the settin'-room, can I? 'Tis betwixt sawdust and kindlin's with these two, but yet I like the old one best."

Then he spoke aloud. "Yes, ma'am! I reelly have—a half a mind to tell you something. Some time or other—not right away, you needn't go thinkin' that, but when I get round to it, you understand—I am thinkin' of—of changin' my condition."

The widow uttered an exclamation, and fixed her beady eyes on him eagerly. The rattling of dishes in the pantry stopped suddenly.

"Yes!" Calvin went on, musing over his pipe. "I've been a rover and a rambler all my life. Old Ma Sill used to say it, and it's true. When I was at sea I'd hanker for the shore, and sim'lar the other way round. Take last night, now—but no need to go into that. Fact is, it ain't only a woman needs a home of her own," he went on, half to himself. "A man needs it too; his own place and his own folks; yes, sir! And come to find them folks at long last, and find 'em better than what he thought the world contained, why, what I say is, it's a pity if he can't scare up a place. What say, old lady? Ain't that about the way it looked to you and Cap'n along back? You poor old dried up stockfish," he added to himself, "I s'pose you was young once, though no one would suspicion it to look at you."

"Dust and ashes!" said the old woman. "Dust and ashes! Jesus'll kerry me through."

"I shouldn't wonder!" said Calvin Parks. And just then Miss Phrony Marlin came in from the pantry with shining eyes.



CHAPTER XVI

TOIL AND TROUBLE

"Happy New Year!" said Calvin Parks. "Happy New Year, Mr. Cheeseman! Happy New Year, Lonzo! happy New Year, the whole concern!"

"Humph!" said Mr. Ivory Cheeseman.

"If this ain't a pretty day to start the new year with, then I never see one, that's all," Calvin went on. "Crisp and clear, everything cracklin' with frost. Hossy's got a white mustash on him like a general. How's trade, Mr. Cheeseman?"