in shaven smooth and shining
between his bushy white side whiskers. His eyes were very mild.

"How do you do, Aurora?" said he. "Now, don't say a word to me--I know
this boy." And he shook hands with Don also. "I know him," said he, "and
I know all he has done today--we all know all about it, Aurora, so don't
talk to me. Tut, tut, my son! But had I been in your place very likely I
should have done the same thing--I might have whipped old Eph Adamson.
You know, sometimes even a minister asks, 'Lord, shall we smite with the
sword?'"

The face of the old man grew grave as he looked from one to the other.
Some presentiment told him that a change had come across Aurora Lane's
manner of life. Could it be possible that she had grown defiant--was she
restive under the weight of the years? Had this sudden and sensational
resurrection of her past brought rebellion to her heart, all these years
so patient, so gentle?

He waved a hand towards the backs of the assemblage. "I suppose you
recognize some of your own handicraft, don't you, 'Rory?" said he,
laughing.

Aurora laughed, also. "A good many," said she frankly. "But the mail
order business in ready-trimmed hats has cut into my trade a great deal
of late. Then there are excursions into Columbus. Still, I see some of
my bonnets here and there--even now and then a gown."

They both laughed yet again, cheerily, both knowing the philosophy of
the poor. Further conversation at the time was cut off by the entrance
of the musicians of the evening, an organization known as the Spring
Valley Cornet Band. These young men, a dozen in number, made their way
solemnly to a place adjacent to the platform, where presently they
busied themselves with certain mild tapping of drums and soft moanings
of alto horns and subdued tootlings of cornets.

The leader of the band was the chief clerk in the First National Bank,
Mr. Jerome Westbrook by name, himself Spring Valley's glass of fashion
and mold of form, and not unconscious of the public attention attracted
to himself in his present capacity. Now and again he looked out over the
audience to see if he could locate a certain young lady, none less than
Sallie Lester, the daughter of the president of his bank, upon whom he
had bestowed the honor of his affections. He was willing to add thereto
eke the honor of his hand.

It was as Aurora Lane had said--this annual gathering of Miss Julia's
was the social clearing house of the community. And t