dicated."

"I don't know anything about politics," answered Wetherell, with an
appealing glance at the silent group,--group that was always there. Rias
Richardson, who had donned the carpet slippers preparatory to tending
store for the day, shuffled inside. Deacon Lysander, his father, would
not have done so.

"You know somethin' about history and the Constitootion, don't ye?"
demanded Chester, truculently. "N'Jethro Bass don't hold your mortgage,
does he? Bank in Brampton holds it--hain't that so? You hain't afeard of
Jethro like the rest on 'em, be you?"

"I don't know what right you have to talk to me that way, Mr. Perkins,"
said Wetherell.

"What right? Jethro holds my mortgage--the hull town knows it-and he kin
close me out to-morrow if he's a mind to--"

"See here, Chester Perkins," Lem Hallowell interposed, as he drove up
with the stage, "what kind of free principles be you preachin'? You'd
ought to know better'n coerce."

"What be you a-goin' to do about that Four Corners road?" Chester cried
to the stage driver.

"I give 'em till to-morrow night to fix it," said Lem. "Git in, Will.
Cynthy's over to the harness shop with Eph. We'll stop as we go 'long."

"Give 'em till to-morrow night!" Chester shouted after them. "What you
goin' to do then?"

But Lem did not answer this inquiry. He stopped at the harness shop,
where Ephraim came limping out and lifted Cynthia to the seat beside her
father, and they joggled off to Brampton. The dew still lay in myriad
drops on the red herd's-grass, turning it to lavender in the morning
sun, and the heavy scent of the wet ferns hung in the forest. Lem
whistled, and joked with little Cynthia, and gave her the reins to
drive, and of last they came in sight of Brampton Street, with its
terrace-steepled church and line of wagons hitched to the common rail,
for it was market day. Father and daughter walked up and down, hand in
hand, under the great trees, and then they went to the bank.

It was a brick building on a corner opposite the common, imposing for
Brampton, and very imposing to Wetherell. It seemed like a tomb as he
entered its door, Cynthia clutching his fingers, and never but once
in his life had he been so near to leaving all hope behind. He waited
patiently by the barred windows until the clerk, who was counting bills,
chose to look up at him.

"Want to draw money?" he demanded.

The words seemed charged with irony. William Wetherell told him,
falteringly,