LITMIR.BIZ

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father was a quiet man, and slow to speak, and his first thought was that the squire had lost his wits.

      "'Who are you, neighbor?' he says. 'Come in; come in, and we'll see.'

      "The squire rapped with his stick on the floor. 'Who am I?' he shouted out. 'Am I Jonathan Tree, or am I that thundering, blundering gogglepate, Ebenezer Weight?'

      "Well, well! the words were hardly out of his mouth when there was a great noise outside, and in comes Elder Weight with his wife after him, and he in a complete caniption, screeching that he was possessed of a devil, and desired the prayers of the congregation. (My father was senior deacon at that time.)

      "'I have broken the tenth commandment!' he cried. 'I have coveted Squire Tree's desk and furniture, and now I see the appearance of them in mine own room, and I know that Satan has me fast in his grip.'

      "Ah, well! It's not good for you to hear these things, Tommy Candy. Solomon was a naughty boy, and Tom Darracott was another, and they well deserved the week of bread and water they got. I expect you make a third, if all was told. They grew up good men, though, and mind you do the same. Have you eaten all the almonds?"

      "'Most all!" said Tommy, modestly.

      "Put the rest in your pocket, then, and run along and ask Direxia to give you a spice-cake. Leave the fig-paste. The bird likes a bit with his supper. What are you thinking of, Tommy Candy?"

      Tommy rumpled his spiky hair, and gave her an elfish glance. "Candys don't seem to like Weightses," he said. "Grampy didn't, nor Dad don't; nor I don't."

      "Here, you may have the fig-paste," said the old lady. "Shut the drawer. Mind you, Solomon, nor Tom either, ever did them any real harm. Solomon was a kind boy, only mischievous – that was all the harm there was to him. Even when he painted Isaac Weight's nose in stripes, he meant no harm in the world; but 'twas naughty all the same. He said he did it to make him look prettier, and I don't know but it did. Don't you do any such things, do you hear?"

      "Yes'm," said Tommy Candy.

      CHAPTER IV.

      OLD FRIENDS

      It was drawing on toward supper-time, of a chill October day. Mrs. Tree was sitting in the twilight, as she loved to do, her little feet on the fender, her satin skirt tucked up daintily, a Chinese hand-screen in her hand. It seemed unlikely that the moderate heat of the driftwood fire would injure her complexion, which consisted chiefly of wrinkles, as has been said; but she always had shielded her face from the fire, and she always would – it was the proper thing to do. The parlor gloomed and lightened around her, the shifting light touching here a bit of gold lacquer, there a Venetian mirror or an ivory statuette. The fire purred and crackled softly; there was no other sound. The tiny figure in the ebony chair was as motionless as one of the Indian idols that grinned at her from her mantelshelf.

      A ring at the door-bell, the shuffling sound of Direxia's soft shoes; then the opening door, and a man's voice asking some question.

      In an instant Mrs. Tree sat live and alert, her ears pricked, her eyes black points of attention. Direxia's voice responded, peevish and resistant, refusing something. The man spoke again, urging some plea.

      "Direxia!" said Mrs. Tree.

      "Yes'm. Jest a minute. I'm seeing to something."

      "Direxia Hawkes!"

      When Mrs. Tree used both names, Direxia knew what it meant. She appeared at the parlor door, flushed and defiant.

      "How you do pester me, Mis' Tree! There's a man at the door, a tramp, and I don't want to leave him alone."

      "What does he look like?"

      "I don't know; he's a tramp, if he's nothing worse. Wants something to eat. Most likely he's stealin' the umbrellas while here I stand!"

      "Show him in here," said Mrs. Tree.

      "What say?"

      "Show him in here; and don't pretend to be deaf, when you hear as well as I do."

      "The dogs – I was going to say! You don't want him in here, Mis' Tree. He's a tramp, I tell ye, and the toughest-lookin' – "

      "Will you show him in here, or shall I come and fetch him?"

      "Well! of all the cantankerous – here! come in, you! she wants to see you!" and Direxia, holding the door in her hand, beckoned angrily to some one invisible. There was a murmur, a reluctant shuffle, and a man appeared in the doorway and stood lowering, his eyes fixed on the ground; a tall, slight man, with stooping shoulders, and delicate pointed features. He was shabbily dressed, yet there was something fastidious in his air, and it was noticeable that the threadbare clothes were clean.

      Mrs. Tree looked at him; looked again. "What do you want here?" she asked, abruptly.

      The man's eyes crept forward to her little feet, resting on the brass fender, and stopped there.

      "I asked for food," he said. "I am hungry."

      "Are you a tramp?"

      "Yes, madam."

      "Anything else?"

      The man was silent.

      "There!" said Direxia, impatiently. "That'll do. Come out into the kitchen and I'll give ye something in a bag, and you can take it with you."

      "I shall be pleased to have you take supper with me, sir!" said the old lady, pointedly addressing the tramp. "Direxia, set a place for this gentleman."

      The color rushed over the man's face. He started, and his eyes crept half-way up the old lady's dress, then dropped again.

      "I – cannot, madam!" he said, with an effort. "I thank you, but you must excuse me."

      "Why can't you?"

      This time the eyes travelled as far as the diamond brooch, and rested there curiously.

      "You must excuse me!" repeated the man, laboriously. "If your woman will give me a morsel in the kitchen – or – I'd better go at once!" he said, breaking off suddenly. "Good evening!"

      "Stop!" said Mrs. Tree, striking her ebony stick sharply on the floor. There was an instant of dead silence, no one stirring.

      "Direxia," she added, presently, "go and set another place for supper!"

      Direxia hesitated. The stick struck the floor again, and she vanished, muttering.

      "Shut the door!" Mrs. Tree commanded, addressing the stranger. "Come here and sit down! No, not on that cheer. Take the ottoman with the bead puppy on it. There!"

      As the man drew forward the ottoman without looking at it, and sat down, she leaned back easily in her chair, and spoke in a half-confidential tone:

      "I get crumpled up, sitting here alone. Some day I shall turn to wood. I like a new face and a new notion. I had a grandson who used to live with me, and I'm lonesome since he died. How do you like tramping, now?"

      "Pretty well," said the man. He spoke over his shoulder, and kept his face toward the fire; it was a chilly evening. "It's all right in summer, or when a man has his health."

      "See things, hey?" said the old lady. "New folks, new faces? Get ideas; is that it?"

      The man nodded gloomily.

      "That begins it. After awhile – I really think I must go!" he said, breaking off short. "You are very kind, madam, but I prefer to go. I am not fit – "

      "Cat's foot!" said Mrs. Tree, and watched him like a cat.

      He fell into a fit of helpless laughter, and laughed till the tears ran down his cheeks. He felt for a pocket-handkerchief.

      "Here's one!" said Mrs. Tree, and handed him a gossamer square. He took it mechanically. His hand was long and slim – and clean.

      "Supper's ready!" snapped Direxia, glowering in at the door.

      "I will take your arm, if you please!" said Mrs. Tree to the tramp, and they went in to supper together.

      Mrs. Tree's dining-room, like her parlor, was a treasury of rare woods. The old mahogany, rich with curious

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