Sam himself drove one
afternoon into Pennyroyal bearing three perfumed notes written by the
widow which he was to carefully deliver at the post-office.

The next afternoon, along about four o'clock, three men appearing in the
village street at almost the same time were seen to start off in the
direction of the Widow Tarwater's farm. Not that they were together,
certainly not; for some little time they were even unconscious of each
other's destination. Ambrose, however, made the discovery first, since
owing to the enfeebled condition of his livery-stable horse and the
disabled state of his prehistoric gig he was compelled to be in the rear
of the procession, which was headed by the Honorable Calvin on a high
black charger and seconded by the Rev. Mr. Tupper in a neat phaeton
drawn by a fat pony.

The tall man could have vowed that the best parlour at the Red Farm had
not been changed in more than three decades, except that a criminal
looking portrait done in crayons of the Widow Tarwater's late husband,
who had been an uncommonly handsome man, hung over the mantel, for there
in the same dark corner and on the identical sofa sat Peachy, but a far
more flushed and emotional Peachy than her former admirer recalled.

For indeed the widow's cheeks were burning, her mouth tremulous like a
worried child's, and after her first greeting of her three visitors, she
continued twisting her handkerchief in and out of her fingers, trying to
speak and yet plainly not finding courage. So conspicuously was she
needing consolation that Uncle Ambrose's long arm fairly ached to
accommodate its length to her large waist, nevertheless the presence of
his rivals, who may or may not have been suffering from the same
pressure, deterred him.

"Ambrose," so much the widow did get out, turning her eyes away from the
encouragement she might have received from the ardour of two other
glances, to rest them on her older friend, "I feel it my duty, having
lately acted kind of suspicious to you, to tell you that I now know who
the boy Sam's father is, was----" And Peachy fell to sobbing now in such
earnest that she was compelled to bury her flushed face in her
handkerchief.

Two of the men stared; many hopeful things had each of them anticipated
in this hasty summons from the widow, but not this confession. However,
the third man, hopping up, began striding rather irritably about the
room.

"If his father was, then fer the land sakes, Peachy, keep