. It
came to him as he approached that portal of his domain that if he had a
son the boy would be there, with the gate flung wide, to help him. It
was only one of the thousand useful offices which a proper boy could
fill around that place, thought he; but his wives had conspired in
barrenness against him; no son ever would come to cheer his declining
days.

Even if he had the kind of a wife that a man should have, reflected he,
she would be watching; she would come through rain and hail, thunder and
wild blast, to open the gate and ease him through without that
troublesome stop.

Matrimony had been a profitless investment for him, said he in
bitterness. His first wife had lived long and eaten ravenously, and had
worn out shoes and calico slips, and his second, a poor unwilling hand,
was not worth her keep.

So, with all this sour summing up of his wasted ventures in his mind,
and the cold rain spitting through his years-worn coat, Isom was in no
humor to debate the way with another man when it came to entering into
his own property through his own wide gate.

But there was another man in the road, blocking it with his top-buggy,
one foot out on the step, his head thrust around the side of the hood
with inquiring look, as if he also felt that there should be somebody at
hand to open the gate and let him pass without muddying his feet.

"Ho!" called Isom uncivilly, hailing the stranger as he pulled up his
team, the end of his wagon-tongue threatening the hood of the buggy;
"what do you want here?"

The stranger put his head out a bit farther and twisted his neck to look
behind. He did not appear to know Isom, any more than Isom knew him, but
there was the surliness of authority, the inhospitality of ownership, in
Isom's mien, and it was the business of the man in the buggy to know men
at a glance. He saw that Isom was the landlord, and he gave him a nod
and smile.

"I'd like to get shelter for my horse and buggy for the night, and
lodging for myself," said he.

"Well, if you pay for it I reckon you can git it," returned Isom. "Pile
out there and open that gate."

That was the way that Curtis Morgan, advance agent of the divine light
of literature, scout of knowledge, torch-bearer of enlightenment into
the dark places of ignorance, made his way into the house of Isom Chase,
and found himself in due time at supper in the low-ceiled kitchen, with
pretty Ollie, like a bright bead in a rusty purse, bringing hot bis