nsils--was also in a sense the nucleus of this village
of Upham Corners. There was no tavern. Although this was the largest
of the little cluster of Uphams, the tavern was in the West Corners,
and the stages met there. However, all the industries had centred in
Upham Corners on account of its superior water privileges: the
grist-mill was there, and the saw-mill. People from the West and East
Corners came to trade at Robinson's store, which was also a factory
in a limited sense. Cyrus Robinson purchased leather in considerable
quantities, and employed several workmen in a great room above the
store to cut out the rude shoes worn in the country-side. These he
let out in lots to the towns-folk to bind and close and finish,
paying them for their work in store goods, seldom in cash, then
selling the shoes himself at a finely calculated profit.

Robinson had, moreover, several spare rooms in his house adjoining
the store, and there, if he were so disposed, he could entertain
strangers who wished to remain in Upham overnight, and neither he nor
his wife was averse to increasing their income in that way. Cyrus
Robinson was believed by many to be as rich as Doctor Prescott and
Simon Basset.

When the men left the store that night, Simon Basset's, Jake Noyes's,
and Adoniram Judd's way lay in the same direction. They still
discussed poor Abel Edwards's disappearance as they went along. Their
voices were rising high, when suddenly Jake Noyes gave Simon Basset a
sharp nudge. "Shut up," he whispered; "the Edwards boy's behind us."

And indeed, as he spoke, Jerome's little light figure came running
past them. He was evidently anxious to get by without notice, but
Simon Basset grasped his arm and brought him to a standstill.

"Hullo!" said he. "You're Abel Edwards's boy, ain't you?"

"I can't stop," said Jerome, pulling away. "I've got to go home.
Mother's waiting for me."

"I don't s'pose you've heard anything yet from your father?"

"No, I 'ain't. I've got to go home."

"Where've you been, Jerome?" asked Adoniram Judd.

"Up to Uncle Ozias's to get Elmira's shoes." Jerome had the stout
little shoes, one in each hand.

"I don't s'pose you've formed any idee of what's become of your
father," said Simon Basset.

Jerome, who had been pulling away from his hold, suddenly stood
still, and turned a stern little white face upon him.

"He's dead," said he.

"Yes, of course he's dead. That is, we're all afraid he is, though we