valise nearly touching the ground as it hung slack from his right
hand. The greenish-brown duster looked bleak and unseasonable as a
cloud went over the sun; it appeared to symbolize the youthful and
spring-like hopes of the wearer, decking the autumn days of life.

"Poor creatur'!" said Sister Pinkham. "There, he doos need somebody to
look after him."

She turned to me frankly, and I asked how far he was going.

"Oh, he'll put up at that little gal's house an' git his dinner, and
give her the jumpin'-jack an' trade a little; an' then he'll work
along the road, callin' from place to place. He's got a good deal o'
system, an' was a smart boy, so that folks expected he was goin' to
make a doctor, but he kind o' petered out. He's long-winded an'
harpin', an' some folks prays him by if they can; but there, most
likes him, an' there's nobody would be more missed. He don't make no
trouble for 'em; he'll take right holt an' help, and there ain't
nobody more gentle with the sick. Always has some o' his nonsense over
to me."

This was added with sudden consciousness that I must have heard the
recent conversation, but we only smiled at each other, and good Sister
Pinkham did not seem displeased. We both turned to look again at the
small figure of Mr. Teaby, as he went away, with his queer, tripping
gait, along the level road.

"Pretty day, if 't wa'n't quite so warm," said Sister Pinkham, as she
rose and reached for her bandbox and bundle, to resume her own
journey. "There, if here ain't Uncle Teaby's umbrilla! He forgits
everything that belongs to him but that old valise. Folks wouldn't
know him if he left that. You may as well just hand it to Asa Briggs,
the depot-master, when he gits back. Like's not the old gentleman 'll
think to call for it as he comes back along. Here's his fan, too, but
he won't be likely to want that this winter."

She looked at the large umbrella; there was a great deal of good
material in it, but it was considerably out of repair.

"I don't know but I'll stop an' mend it up for him, poor old
creatur'," she said slowly, with an apologetic look at me. Then she
sat down again, pulled a large rolled-up needlebook from her deep and
accessible pocket, and sewed busily for some time with strong
stitches.

I sat by and watched her, and was glad to be of use in chasing her
large spool of linen thread, which repeatedly rolled away along the
platform. Sister Pinkham's affectionate thoughts were evidently