ace it was
so long as its sign swung at the side of the road: famous for its
landlord, portly, paternal, whose welcome to a guest that looked worthy
of the attention was like that of a parent to a returning prodigal, and
whose parting words were almost as good as a marriage benediction; famous
for its landlady, ample in person, motherly, seeing to the whole
household with her own eyes, mistress of all culinary secrets that
Northern kitchens are most proud of; famous also for its ancient servant,
as city people would call her,--help, as she was called in the tavern
and would have called herself,--the unchanging, seemingly immortal
Miranda, who cared for the guests as if she were their nursing mother,
and pressed the specially favorite delicacies on their attention as a
connoisseur calls the wandering eyes of an amateur to the beauties of a
picture. Who that has ever been at the old Anchor Tavern forgets
Miranda's

"A little of this fricassee?-it is ver-y nice;"

or

"Some of these cakes? You will find them ver-y good."

Nor would it be just to memory to forget that other notable and noted
member of the household,--the unsleeping, unresting, omnipresent Pushee,
ready for everybody and everything, everywhere within the limits of the
establishment at all hours of the day and night. He fed, nobody could
say accurately when or where. There were rumors of a "bunk," in which he
lay down with his clothes on, but he seemed to be always wide awake, and
at the service of as many guest, at once as if there had been half a
dozen of him.

So much for old reminiscences.

The landlord of the Anchor Tavern had taken down his sign. He had had
the house thoroughly renovated and furnished it anew, and kept it open in
summer for a few boarders. It happened more than once that the summer
boarders were so much pleased with the place that they stayed on through
the autumn, and some of them through the winter. The attractions of the
village were really remarkable. Boating in summer, and skating in
winter; ice-boats, too, which the wild ducks could hardly keep up with;
fishing, for which the lake was renowned; varied and beautiful walks
through the valley and up the hillsides; houses sheltered from the north
and northeasterly winds, and refreshed in the hot summer days by the
breeze which came over the water,--all this made the frame for a pleasing
picture of rest and happiness. But there was a great deal more than
this. There was a