ce, who were still watching
him with anxiety. "Well, not on account of the actool timber, for the
best of it ain't sound," he said, "but on account of its bein' famous!
Everybody that reads that pow'ful pretty poem about it in the 'Excelsior
Magazine' wants to see it. Why, it would pay the Green Springs
hotel-keeper to buy it up for his customers. But I s'pose you reckon to
keep it--along with the poetess--in your famerly?"

Although Mr. Bowers long considered this speech as the happiest and most
brilliant effort of his life, its immediate effect was not, perhaps,
all that could be desired. The widow turned upon him a restrained and
darkening face. Cynthia half rose with an appealing "Oh, mar!" and Bob
and Eunice, having apparently pinched each other to the last stage of
endurance, retired precipitately from the room in a prolonged giggle.

"I have not yet thought of disposing of the Summit woods, Mr. Bowers,"
said Mrs. Delatour, coldly, "but if I should do so, I will consult you.
You must excuse the children, who see so little company, they are quite
unmanageable when strangers are present. Cynthia, WILL you see if the
servants have looked after Mr. Bowers's horse? You know Bob is not to be
trusted."

There was clearly nothing else for Mr. Bowers to do but to take his
leave, which he did respectfully, if not altogether hopefully. But when
he had reached the lane, his horse shied from the unwonted spectacle of
Bob, swinging his hat, and apparently awaiting him, from the fork of a
wayside sapling.

"Hol' up, mister. Look here!"

Mr. Bowers pulled up. Bob dropped into the road, and, after a backward
glance over his shoulder, said:--

"Drive 'longside the fence in the shadder." As Mr. Bowers obeyed,
Bob approached the wheels of the buggy in a manner half shy, half
mysterious. "You wanter buy them Summit woods, mister?"

"Well, per'aps, sonny. Why?" smiled Mr. Bowers.

"Coz I'll tell ye suthin'. Don't you be fooled into allowin' that
Cynthia wrote that po'try. She didn't--no more'n Eunice nor me. Mar
kinder let ye think it, 'cos she don't want folks to think SHE did it.
But mar wrote that po'try herself; wrote it out o' them thar woods--all
by herself. Thar's a heap more po'try thar, you bet, and jist as good.
And she's the one that kin write it--you hear me? That's my mar, every
time! You buy that thar wood, and get mar to run it for po'try, and
you'll make your pile, sure! I ain't lyin'. You'd better look spry: