"Well, you do that, and tell her if she's not busy, I'd like to talk
with her awhile. Do you remember what I said to you this morning?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, I'm going to talk to her about it now."

Jean slipped down in a hurry, and departed with her big bundle of candy,
looking both pleased and frightened.

Mrs. Dering came down in a moment, and not having entirely given up his
imaginary widow, Mr. Congreve looked up in some trepidation to see if
she was crying. But no; her face, though pale and sad, was perfectly
tranquil, and her dress was cozy, comfortable brown.

After a few remarks about his walk, and the attractions of Canfield,
conversation sank into an uneasy pause, and for some unknown reason, Mr.
Congreve grew as red as a lobster. He had expected when he came that all
he would have to do would be to fill out a check for several thousand,
assure the demonstrative widow that she should never want, graciously
allow the children to call him Uncle Ridley, submit to be kissed at
coming and going, then get out of the way, and confine his further
acquaintance with them to the medium of occasional checks and a few
letters, when,--well, did you ever!--here he sat, blushing like the
most bashful lover in Christendom, and couldn't get up his courage to
offer the widow help of any kind; had actually requested the youngest
child to kiss, and call him Uncle Ridley, and was now entertaining an
idea, which, had it been broached to him before leaving home, would have
aroused his fiercest ridicule and amaze.

"You know, perhaps," he began, with a preparatory and strengthening
sniff of snuff, "that I heard from Robert, some days ago?"

"Yes, sir, but I did not know it until last night."

"Humph!" he remembered his first greeting, and looked at her sharply.
"Perhaps you did not know until then, just how his affairs stood?"

"No, sir, I did not. Our daughter Olive was her father's book-keeper and
confidante; she knew all; but with his ever thoughtful consideration, he
hoped to settle his business difficulty without worrying me, and I did
not know until after I left you last night, how deep had been his
trouble."

"Olive,--hum, ha!" said Mr. Congreve, nodding decidedly, and really
looking pleased. "She's the one that said she hated me last night; good!
I'll wager my hat she saw my letter; I like her spunk; she's a thorough
Congreve. Your oldest, I suppose?"

"Oh no, she's quite a child in years, not yet sixteen."

"Go