“M-yes!” said the old man, as they went down stairs. “I've made out a visit. But I'm an old fellow, and I ain't easy away from home. I shall tell Mis' Gaylord how you're gettin' along, and she'll be pleased to hear it. Yes, she'll be pleased to hear it. I guess I shall get off on the ten-o'clock train.” The conversation between Bartley and his father-in-law was perfunctory. Men who have dealt so plainly with each other do not assume the conventional urbanities in their intercourse without effort. They had both been growing more impatient of the restraint; they could not have kept it up much longer. “Well, I suppose it's natural you should want to be home again, but I can't understand how any one can want to go back to Equity when he has the privilege of staying in Boston.” “Boston will do for a young man,” said the Squire, “but I'm too old for it. The city cramps me; it's too tight a fit; and yet I can't seem to find myself in it.” He suffered from the loss of identity which is a common affliction with country people coming to town. The feeling that they are of no special interest to any of the thousands they meet bewilders and harasses them; after the searching neighborhood of village life, the fact that nobody would meddle in their most intimate affairs if they could, is a vague distress. The Squire not only experienced this, but, after reigning so long as the censor of morals and religion in Equity, it was a deprivation for him to pass a whole week without saying a bitter thing to any one. He was tired of the civilities that smoothed him down on every side. “Well, if you must go,” said Bartley, “I'll order a hack.” “I guess I can walk to the depot,” returned the old man. “Oh, no, you can't.” Bartley drove to the station with him, and they bade each other adieu with a hand-shake. They were no longer enemies, but they liked each other less than ever. “See you in Equity next summer, I suppose?” suggested the Squire. “So Marcia says,” replied Bartley. “Well, take care of yourself.--You confounded, tight-fisted old woodchuck!” he added under his breath, for the Squire had allowed him to pay the hack fare. He walked home, composing variations on his parting malison, to find that the Squire had profited by his brief absence while ordering the hack, to leave with Marcia a silver cup, knife, fork, and spoon, which Olive Halleck had helped him choose, for the baby. In the cup was a check for five hundred dollars. The Squire was embarrassed in presenting the gifts, and when Marcia turned upon him with, “Now, look here, father, what do you mean?” he was at a loss how to explain. “Well, it's what I always meant to do for you.” “Baby's things are all right,” said Marcia. “But I'm not going to let Bartley take any money from you, unless you think as well of him as I do, and say so, right out.” The Squire laughed. “You couldn't quite expect me to do that, could you?”