CHAPTER II.

Hamilton Morris was a very promising young man, of some thirty
summers. He had been an "orphan" for a dozen years, and the wonder was
that he should so long have lived alone in the big square-built house
his father left him. At all events, Miranda Kinzer was just the wife
for him.

Miranda's mother had seen that at a glance, the moment her mind
was settled about the house. As to that and his great, spreading,
half-cultivated farm, all either of them needed was ready money and
management.

These were blessings Ham was now made reasonably sure of, on his
return from his wedding trip, and he was likely to appreciate them.

As for Dabney Kinzer, he was in no respect overcome by the novelty and
excitement of the wedding. All the rest of the day he devoted himself
to such duties as were assigned him, with a new and grand idea
steadily taking shape in his mind. He felt as if his brains, too, were
growing. Some of his mother's older and more intimate friends remained
with her all day, probably to comfort her for the loss of Miranda,
and two or three of them, Dab knew, would stay to tea, so that his
services would be in demand to see them safely home.

All day long, moreover, Samantha and Keziah and Pamela seemed to find
themselves wonderfully busy, one way and another, so that they paid
even less attention than usual to any of the ins and outs of their
brother.

Dabney was therefore able, with little difficulty, to take for himself
whatever of odd time he might require for putting his new idea into
execution.

Mrs. Kinzer herself noticed the rare good sense with which her son
hurried through with his dinner and slipped away, leaving her in
undisturbed possession of the table and her lady guests, and neither
she nor either of the girls had a thought of following him.

If they had done so, they might have seen him draw a good-sized bundle
out from under the lilac-thicket in the back yard, and hurry down
through the garden.

A few minutes more and Dabney appeared on the fence of the old
cross-road leading down to the shore. There he sat, eying one
passer-by after another, till he suddenly sprang from his perch,
exclaiming: "That's just the chap. Why, they'll fit him, and that's
more'n they ever did for me."

Dab would probably have had to search along the coast for miles
before he could have found a human being better suited to his present
charitable purposes than the boy who now came so lazily down th