y in her inquiries. I was rejoiced
this morning when the expected letter came. It is--a--in a masculine
hand, you will perceive, Mr. Butters, and the postmark is that of the
town to which Miss Pitcher's own letters were sent. I do not wish to
seem indelicately intrusive, but I confess it has occurred to me that
this might be a case of possible misunderstanding; of--a--alienation;
of--a--wounding of the tendrils of the heart, gentlemen. To see a young
person, especially a young lady, suffer the pangs of hope deferred--"

Ithuriel Butters looked at him.

"Have you ever seen Leory Pitcher, Homer?" he asked, abruptly.

"No, sir, I have not had that pleasure. But from the character of her
handwriting (she has the praiseworthy habit of putting her own name on
the envelope), I have inferred her youth, and a certain timidity of--"

"Wal, she's sixty-five, if she's a day, and she's got a hare-lip and a
cock-eye. She's uglier than sin, and snugger than eel-skin; one o' them
kind that when you prick 'em they bleed sour milk; and what she wants is
for her brother-in-law to send her his wife's clo'es, 'cause he's goin'
to marry again. All Shellback's ben talkin' about it these three
months."

Mr. Homer colored painfully.

"Is it so?" he said, dejectedly. "I regret that--that my misconception
was so complete. I ask your pardon, Mr. Butters."

"Nothin' at all, nothin' at all," said Mr. Butters, briskly, seeing that
he had given pain. "You mustn't think I want to say anything against a
neighbor, Homer, but there's no paintin' Leory Pitcher pooty, 'cause she
ain't.

"I ben visitin' with Mis' Tree this mornin'," he added, benevolently;
"she's aunt to you, I believe, ain't she?"

"Cousin, Mr. Butters," said Mr. Homer, still depressed. "Mrs. Tree and
my father were first cousins. A most interesting character, my cousin
Marcia, Mr. Butters."

"Wal, she is so," responded Mr. Butters, heartily. "She certinly is; ben
so all her life. Why, sir, I knew Mis' Tree when she was a gal."

"Sho!" said Seth Weaver, incredulously.

"Indeed!" exclaimed Mr. Homer, with interest.

"Yes, sir, I knew her well. She was older than me, some. When I was a
boy, say twelve year old, Miss Marshy Darracott was a young lady. The
pick of the country she was, now I tell ye! Some thought Miss Timothy
was handsomer,--she was tall, and a fine figger; her and Mis' Blyth
favored each other,--but little Miss Marshy was the one for my money.
She used to make m