he took it that you wanted the gal, and the old
man thought you wa'n't good enough. And she boiled. 'Why, he can start
a church tune better than any person we ever had in the
neighborhood,' she 'lowed. 'Not good enough, indeed!' And I dodged on
off, sorter laughin' as I ducked behind the hen-house. And that
reminds me, Sammy, that a varmint come the other night and toated off
the likeliest rooster I had on the place. Mother woke me at night, and
asked if that wa'n't a chicken squallin.' I told her that I had the
plan of a new barn in my head, and that I couldn't let the squallin'
of no sich thing as a chicken drive it out, and I went to sleep. But
you ought to have seen the look she gave me the next mornin' when we
found feathers scattered all over the yard. By the way, Sammy, where
is the other man; the great lawyer that was your partner? Is he out at
present?"

"Yes, Uncle Buckley, he's out at present, and for good. We have
dissolved partnership."

"No!" said the old man, dropping his jaw. "Why, I thought you and him
was together for keeps. And you don't really mean to tell me that you
ain't, Sammy?"

"He has an office on the other side of the square, and I'm not in the
law business," Lyman replied. "Warren and I are running this paper."

"When did you quit each other?" the old man asked, leaning forward
and picking at his blanket leggings.

"Why, the day you were in here. You remember I left you here with him.
When I came back he had decided to set aside the partnership."

The old man looked up at the ceiling. "I reckon it's all right, but I
don't exactly get the hang of it," he said, getting up and taking his
hat off the table.

"Understand what, Uncle Buckley?" Lyman asked.

"Oh, nothin'. It's all right, I reckon. Young feller, jest keep on a
shootin' your paper at me. We find some mighty interestin' readin' in
it; and sometimes Lige he breaks out in a loud laugh over a piece, and
he 'lows, 'if that ain't old Sammy, up and up, I don't want a cent.'
Well, boys, I've some knockin' around to do and I'll have to bid you
good day."

CHAPTER XIV.

NOTHING REMARKABLE IN IT.

Mr. McElwin put aside his newspaper and paced slowly up and down the
room, his slippered feet falling with an emphatic pat on the carpet.
His wife sat near the window, watching the swallows cutting black
circles in the dusky air. Eva was seated at the piano, half turned
from it, while with one hand she felt about to touch the ne