n the end, Ruth, explainin' the happy
endin' of the romance. If you can't do it justice, James and me can
help--James was allers a master hand at writin'. It'll have to tell how
through the long years he has toiled, hopin' against hope, and for over
thirty years not darin' to write a line to the object of his affections,
not feelin' worthy, as you may say, and how after her waitin' faithfully
at home and turnin' away dozens of lovers what pleaded violent-like,
she finally went travellin' in furrin parts and come upon her old lover
a-keepin' a store in a heathen land, a-strugglin' to retrieve disaster
after disaster at sea, and constantly withstandin' the blandishments of
heathen women as endeavoured to wean him from his faith, and how, though
very humble and scarcely darin to speak, he learned that she was willin'
and they come a sailin' home together and lived happily ever afterward.
Ain't that as it was, James?"

"Yes'm, except that there wa'n't no particular disaster at sea and them
heathen women didn't exert no blandishments. They was jest pleasant to
an old feller, bless their little hearts."

By some subtle mental process, Mr. Ball became aware that he had made
a mistake. "You ain't changed nothin' here, Jane," he continued,
hurriedly, "there's the haircloth sofy that we used to set on Sunday
evenins' after meetin', and the hair wreath with the red rose in it made
out of my hair and the white rose made out of your grandmother's hair
on your father's side, and the yeller lily made out of the hair of your
Uncle Jed's youngest boy. I disremember the rest, but time was when I
could say'm all. I never see your beat for makin' hair wreaths, Jane.
There ain't nothin' gone but the melodeon that used to set by the
mantel. What's come of the melodeon?"

"The melodeon is set away in the attic. The mice et out the inside."

"Didn't you hev no cat?"

"There ain't no cat, James, that could get into a melodeon through a
mouse hole, more especially the big maltese you gave me. I kept that
cat, James, as you may say, all these weary years. When there was
kittens, I kept the one that looked most like old Malty, but of late
years, the cats has all been different, and the one I buried jest afore
I sailed away was yeller and white with black and brown spots--a kinder
tortoise shell--that didn't look nothin' like Malty. You'd never have
knowed they belonged to the same family, but I was sorry when she died,
on account of her bein'