who had been drawn to the
scene.

In all human probability the late omission of the shaking of Sim's and
Marann's hands was compensated at their parting that afternoon. I am
more confident on this point because at the end of the year those
hands were joined inseparably by the preacher. But this was when they
had all gone back to their old home; for if Mr. Fluker did not become
fully convinced that his mathematical education was not advanced quite
enough for all the exigencies of hotel-keeping, his wife declared that
she had had enough of it, and that she and Marann were going home. Mr.
Fluker may be said, therefore, to have followed, rather than led, his
family on the return.

As for the deputy, finding that if he did not leave it voluntarily he
would be drummed out of the village, he departed, whither I do not
remember if anybody ever knew.

THE NICE PEOPLE

By Henry Cuyler Bunner (1855-1896)

[From _Puck_, July 30, 1890. Republished in the volume, _Short Sixes:
Stories to Be Read While the Candle Burns_ (1891), by Henry Cuyler
Bunner; copyright, 1890, by Alice Larned Bunner; reprinted by
permission of the publishers, Charles Scribner'a Sons.]

"They certainly are nice people," I assented to my wife's observation,
using the colloquial phrase with a consciousness that it was anything
but "nice" English, "and I'll bet that their three children are better
brought up than most of----"

"_Two_ children," corrected my wife.

"Three, he told me."

"My dear, she said there were _two_."

"He said three."

"You've simply forgotten. I'm _sure_ she told me they had only two--a
boy and a girl."

"Well, I didn't enter into particulars."

"No, dear, and you couldn't have understood him. Two children."

"All right," I said; but I did not think it was all right. As a
near-sighted man learns by enforced observation to recognize persons
at a distance when the face is not visible to the normal eye, so the
man with a bad memory learns, almost unconsciously, to listen
carefully and report accurately. My memory is bad; but I had not had
time to forget that Mr. Brewster Brede had told me that afternoon that
he had three children, at present left in the care of his
mother-in-law, while he and Mrs. Brede took their summer vacation.

"Two children," repeated my wife; "and they are staying with his aunt
Jenny."

"He told me with his mother-in-law," I put in. My wife looked at me
with a serious expression. Men may not re