mile so persistently and so unreasonably, that when, as now, she would
have preferred to present a serious countenance to an observer, she
found it impossible to relax the muscles of her mouth from their
expression of perpetual cheerfulness. Cyrus, who had once remarked of
her that he didn't believe she could keep a straight face at her own
funeral, wondered, while he rose and offered her a chair, whether the
periodical sprees of honest Tom were the cause or the result of the look
of set felicity she wore. For an instant he was tempted to show his
annoyance at the intrusion. Then, because she was a pretty woman and did
not belong to him, he grew almost playful, with the playfulness of an
uncertain tempered ram that is offered salt.

"It is not often that I am honoured by a visit from you," he said.

"The honour is mine. Mr. Treadwell," she replied, and she really felt
it. "I was on my way upstairs to see Belinda, and it just crossed my
mind as I saw you sitting out here, that I'd better stop and speak to
you about your nephew. I wonder Belinda doesn't plant a few rose-bushes
along that back wall," she added.

"I'd pay you fifty dollars, ma'am, if you'd get Belinda to plant
anything"--which was not delicately put, perhaps, but was, after all,
spoken in the only language that Cyrus knew.

"I thought she was so fond of flowers. She used to be as a girl."

"Humph!" was Cyrus's rejoinder, and then: "Well, what about my nephew,
madam?" Clasping his bony hands over his knee, he leaned forward and
waited, not without curiosity, for her answer. He did not admire
Oliver--he even despised him--but when all was said, the boy had
succeeded in riveting his attention. However poorly he might think of
him, the fact remained that think of him he did. The young man was in
the air as inescapably as if he were the measles.

"I'm worrying about him, Mr. Treadwell; I can't help myself. You know he
boards with me."

"Yes'm, I know," replied Cyrus--for he had heard the fact from Miss
Priscilla on his way home from church one Sunday.

"And he's not well. There's something the matter with him. He's so
nervous and irritable that he's almost crazy. He doesn't eat a morsel,
and I can hear him pacing up and down his room until daybreak. Once I
got up and went upstairs to ask him if he was sick, but he said that he
was perfectly well and was walking about for exercise. I am sure I don't
know what it can be, but if it keeps up, he'll land in a