nly a few weeks. She recovered perfectly, and
her head was as clear as mine for a year or two after father went away.
As his letters grew less frequent, as news of him gradually ceased to
come, she became more and more silent, and retired more completely into
herself. She never went anywhere, nor entertained visitors, because she
did not wish to hear the gossip and speculation that were going on
in the village. Some of it was very hard for a wife to bear, and she
resented it indignantly; yet never received a word from father with
which to refute it. At this time, as nearly as I can judge, she was
a recluse, and subject to periods of profound melancholy, but nothing
worse. Then she took that winter journey to her sister's deathbed,
brought home the boy, and, hastened by exposure and chill and grief, I
suppose, her mind gave way,--that's all!" And Ivory sighed drearily
as he stretched himself on the greensward, and looked off towards the
snow-clad New Hampshire hills. "I've meant to write the story of the
'Cochrane craze' sometime, or such part of it as has to do with my
family history, and you shall read it if you like. I should set down my
child-hood and my boyhood memories, together with such scraps of village
hearsay as seem reliable. You were not so much younger than I, but I
was in the thick of the excitement, and naturally I heard more than
you, having so bitter a reason for being interested. Jacob Cochrane has
altogether disappeared from public view, but there's many a family in
Maine and New Hampshire, yes, and in the far West, that will feel his
influence for years to come."

"I should like very much to read your account. Aunt Abby's version, for
instance, is so different from Uncle Bart's that one can scarcely find
the truth between the two; and father's bears no relation to that of any
of the others."

"Some of us see facts and others see visions," replied Ivory, "and these
differences of opinion crop up in the village every day when anything
noteworthy is discussed. I came upon a quotation in my reading last
evening that described it:

'One said it thundered... another that an angel spake'"

"Do you feel as if your father was dead, Ivory?"

"I can only hope so! That thought brings sadness with it, as one
remembers his disappointment and failure, but if he is alive he is a
traitor."

There was a long pause and they could see in the distance Humphrey
Barker with his clarionet and Pliny Waterhouse wi