tretch of the imagination be called the
pioneer of all the genus to be known in the future as City Folks, who
were, two generations later, to invade the country like a devouring army
of locusts.

At that time a stranger in Brampton was enough to set the town agog. But
a young man of three and twenty, with an independent income of four
hundred dollars a year!--or any income at all not derived from his own
labor--was unheard of. It is said that when the stage from over Truro Gap
arrived in Brampton Street a hundred eyes gazed at him unseen, from
various ambushes, and followed him up the walk to Silas Wheelock's, where
he was to board. In half an hour Brampton knew the essentials of Isaac
Worthington's story, and Sam Price was on his way with it to Coniston for
distribution at Jonah Winch's store.

Young Mr. Worthington was from Boston--no less; slim, pale, medium
height, but with an alert look, and a high-bridged nose. But his clothes!
Sam Price's vocabulary was insufficient here, they were cut in such a
way, and Mr. Worthington was downright distinguished-looking under his
gray beaver. Why had he come to Brampton? demanded Deacon Ira Perkins.
Sam had saved this for the last. Young Mr. Worthington was threatened
with consumption, and had been sent to live with his distant relative,
Silas Wheelock.

The presence of a gentleman of leisure--although threatened with
consumption--became an all-absorbing topic in two villages and three
hamlets, and more than one swain, hitherto successful, felt the wind blow
colder. But in a fortnight it was known that a petticoat did not make
Isaac Worthington even turn his head. Curiosity centred on Silas
Wheelock's barn, where Mr. Worthington had fitted up a shop, and,
presently various strange models of contrivances began to take shape
there. What these were, Silas himself knew not; and the gentleman of
leisure was, alas! close-mouthed. When he was not sawing and hammering
and planing, he took long walks up and down Coniston Water, and was
surprised deep in thought at several places.

Nathan Bass's story-and-a-half house, devoid of paint, faced the road,
and behind it was the shed, or barn, that served as the tannery, and
between the tannery and Coniston Water were the vats. The rain flew in
silvery spray, and the drops shone like jewels on the coat of a young man
who stood looking in at the tannery door. Young Jake Wheeler, son of the
village spendthrift, was driving a lean white horse