, which all ended in the
simple fact that, to escape embarrassment, the rent must again be saved
from the earnings of the farm.

The harvests that year were bountiful; wheat, barley, and oats stood
thick and heavy in the fields. No one showed more careful thrift or more
cheerful industry than young Joel Bradbury, and the family felt that
much of the fortune of their harvest was owing to him.

On the first day after the crops had been securely housed, all went
to meeting, except Sylvia. In the walled graveyard the sod was already
green over De Courcy's unmarked mound, but Alice had planted a little
rose-tree at the head, and she and her mother always visited the spot
before taking their seats on the women's side. The meeting-house was
very full that day, as the busy season of the summer was over, and the
horses of those who lived at a distance had no longer such need of rest.

It was a sultry forenoon, and the windows and doors of the building were
open. The humming of insects was heard in the silence, and broken lights
and shadows of the poplar-leaves were sprinkled upon the steps and
sills. Outside there were glimpses of quiet groves and orchards, and
blue fragments of sky,--no more semblance of life in the external
landscape than there was in the silent meeting within. Some quarter of
an hour before the shaking of hands took place, the hoofs of a horse
were heard in the meeting-house yard--the noise of a smart trot on the
turf, suddenly arrested.

The boys pricked up their ears at this unusual sound, and stole glances
at each other when they imagined themselves unseen by the awful faces in
the gallery. Presently those nearest the door saw a broader shadow fall
over those flickering upon the stone. A red face appeared for a moment,
and was then drawn back out of sight. The shadow advanced and receded,
in a state of peculiar restlessness. Sometimes the end of a riding-whip
was visible, sometimes the corner of a coarse gray coat. The boys who
noticed these apparitions were burning with impatience, but they dared
not leave their seats until Abraham Bradbury had reached his hand to
Henry Donnelly.

Then they rushed out. The mysterious personage was still beside the
door, leaning against the wall. He was a short, thick-set man of fifty,
with red hair, round gray eyes, a broad pug nose, and projecting mouth.
He wore a heavy gray coat, despite the heat, and a waistcoat with
many brass buttons; also corduroy breeches and