on the opening of the door. Still it was not a
disagreeable, but rather a suggestive and poetical odor, which should
affect one like a reminiscent dream. However, the village people
sniffed at it, and said "How musty that old house is!"

That was what Daniel Tuxbury said now. "The house is musty," he
remarked, with stately nose in the air.

Mrs. Field made no response. She stepped inside at once. "I'm much
obliged to you," said she.

The lawyer looked at her, then past her into the dark depths of the
house. "You can't see," said he, "you must let me go in with you and
get a light." He spoke in a tone of short politeness. He was in his
heart utterly out of patience with this strange, stiff old woman.

"I guess I can find one. I hate to make you so much trouble."

Mr. Tuxbury stepped forward with decision, and began fumbling in his
pocket for a match. "Of course you cannot find one in the dark, Mrs.
Maxwell," said he, with open exasperation.

She said nothing more, but stood meekly in the hall until a light
flared out from a room on the left. The lawyer had found a lamp, he
was himself somewhat familiar with the surroundings, but on the way
to it he stumbled over a chair with an exclamation. It sounded like
an oath to Mrs. Field, but she thought she must be mistaken. She had
never in her life heard many oaths, and when she did had never been
able to believe her ears.

"I hope you didn't hurt you," said she, deprecatingly, stepping
forward.

"I am not hurt, thank you." But the twinge in the lawyer's ankle was
confirming his resolution to say nothing more to her on the subject
of his regret and unwillingness that she should choose to refuse his
hospitality, and spend such a lonely and uncomfortable night. "I
won't say another word to her about it," he declared to himself. So
he simply made arrangements with her for a meeting at his office the
next morning to attend to the business for which there had been no
time to-night, and took his leave.

"I never saw such a woman," was his conclusion of the story, which he
related to his sister upon his return home. His sister was a widow,
and just then her married daughter and two children were visiting
her.

"I wish you'd let me know she wa'n't comin'," said she. "I cut the
fruit cake an' opened a jar of peach, an' I've put clean sheets on
the front chamber bed. It's made considerable work for nothin'." She
eyed, as she spoke, the two children, who were happily eatin