nature,
together with his misfortune, having won the heart of Friendship.

His fame for making and doing over furniture had spread beyond the borders
of the town; his opinion was valued highly by collectors, and it was said
he might have made a fortune in the city. But what use had he for a
fortune? It was the friendly greetings, the neighborly kindnesses, the
comradeship with the children of the village, that made his life.

In spite of its rugged lines his face as he grew older had taken on a
singularly sweet expression, but it was sad to-day as he sat on the wall
in his knit jacket and work apron, looking down on the town, its roofs and
spires showing amongst the trees. It seemed to him that the times were out
of joint, and his cheerful philosophy was beginning to fail him. Something
had been wrong ever since Patterson Whittredge went away, more than a
dozen years ago.

Morgan never failed to follow with interest the careers of the boys of
Friendship as they went out into the world, and of all the boys of the
village Patterson had been his favorite. He had understood the trouble as
well as if it had been carefully explained to him. His deafness had
quickened his insight. A girl's lovely face on Pat's dressing-table, seen
when he replaced a broken caster, partly told the story, and Mrs.
Whittredge's pride and determination were no secret to any one.

Judge Whittredge's whitening head and heavy step, his fruitless search for
health abroad, his return to die at last in his old home, Patterson's
coming,--sent for by his heart-broken mother,--this was the rest of the
story. But before this family difference had been settled by the stern
hand of death, the removal of Thomas Gilpin had precipitated another
quarrel upon the town.

It was a puzzle to Morgan that a man like his old friend Mr. Gilpin, who
had it in his power to do so much good, should have chosen to do harm
instead. As he rose to go, he looked over his shoulder at the old house,
closed and deserted since the death of its owner.

The site was a beautiful one, commanding a view of valley and hill and the
narrow winding river. The house, an unpretentious square of red brick,
with sloping roof and dormer windows, wore its hundred years with dignity,
and amid its fine trees was an object of interest to strangers, of pride
to the villagers.

Below it on the slope stood a more modern house, in what had been until
recently a handsome garden. Morgan, as he passed