n, with a coldness that for a
moment silenced her brother-in-law and wiped the smile from his face.

Old Martha, over in one corner, glowered with indignation.

"Cantankerous ole skinflint," she muttered under her breath. "Dey ain't
never nuffin' but trouble when dat man comes inter dis house. Sittin'
dere, stuffin' hisself, while dat po' lam' upstairs is starvin' ter def.
I on'y hopes one of dem chicken bones sticks in his froat. It'd be do
Lo'd's own jedgment on 'im."

But Martha's wishes were not realized, and Aaron finished his supper
without suffering from any visitation of Providence. In fact, he had
seldom enjoyed a meal more. It was one of Martha's best, and, to any one
that knew that good woman's ability in the culinary line, that meant a
great deal. Then, too, Teddy, was in disgrace, and the discomfort he had
suffered that afternoon was in a fair way to be atoned for. He was not
by any means willing to let it rest at that, and he figured on putting
another spoke in the wheel of that young man's fortunes.

But, if Aaron had enjoyed his meal, nobody else had.

Mr. Rushton was wondering whether he had not been too severe. Mrs.
Rushton, on the verge of tears, was sure he had. And Fred, who had been
thinking all the time of poor Teddy, agreed with her.

That morning, their home had been one of the happiest in Oldtown.
To-night, every inmate was thoroughly miserable, except their guest.

Why was it, Mrs. Rushton wondered, that trouble always came with Aaron?
Never had he come except to her regret, and never had he left without a
sigh of heartfelt relief on the part of every member of the family. He
was a shadow on the hearth, a spectre at the feast.

He was not without good qualities, and plenty of them. In the community
where he lived, he was highly respected. He was upright and
square-dealing, and nobody could say that Aaron Rushton had ever
wilfully done him a wrong.

But, though everybody esteemed him, there were few who really liked him.
His was not a nature to inspire affection. He was too rigid and severe.
The "milk of human kindness" had either been left out of his
composition, or, at best, it had changed to buttermilk. Whenever one
brushed against him, he was conscious of sharp edges. He was as full of
quills as the "fretful porcupine," and always ready to let them fly.

With young people especially, he had little sympathy. Although as far
apart as the poles in many things, he and Jed Muggs were a