Little by little, in an unused room in the village hotel there began to accumulate a motley collection--a clock, a marble-topped table, a cradle, a patchwork quilt, a bureau, a hair wreath, a chair worn with age and use. And as this collection grew in size and fame, only that family which could not add to it counted itself abused and unfortunate, so great was the spell that the persistent, smiling-faced woman had cast about her. Just before the Burton house was finished Mrs. John came back to town. She had to hurry a little about the last of the decorations and furnishings to make up for lost time; but there came a day when the place was pronounced ready for occupancy. It was then that Mrs. John hurried into Grandpa and Grandma Burton's rooms at the hotel. "Come, dears," she said gayly. "The house is all ready, and we're going home." "Done? So soon?" faltered Grandma Burton, who had not been told very much concerning the new home's progress. "Why, how quick they have built it!" There was a note of regret in the tremulous old voice, but Mrs. John did not seem to notice. The old man, too, rose from his chair with a long sigh--and again Mrs. John did not seem to notice. * * * * * "Yes, dearie, yes, it's all very nice and fine," said Grandma Burton wearily, half an hour later as she trudged through the sumptuous parlors and halls of the new house; "but, if you don't mind, I guess I'll go to my room, daughter. I'm tired--turrible tired." Up the stairs and along the hall trailed the little procession--Mrs. John, John, the bent old man, and the little old woman. At the end of the hall Mrs. John paused a moment, then flung the door wide open. There was a gasp and a quick step forward; then came the sudden illumination of two wrinkled old faces. "John! Edith!"--it was a cry of mingled joy and wonder. There was no reply. Mrs. John had closed the door and left them there with their treasures. For Jimmy Uncle Zeke's pipe had gone out--sure sign that Uncle Zeke's mind was not at rest. For five minutes the old man had occupied in frowning silence the other of my veranda rocking-chairs. As I expected, however, I had not long to wait. "I met old Sam Hadley an' his wife in the cemetery just now," he observed. "Yes?" I was careful to express just enough, and not too much, interest: one had to be circumspect with Uncle Zeke. "Hm-m; I was thinkin'--" Uncle Zeke paused, shifted his position, and began again. This time I had the whole story. "I was thinkin'--I don't say that Jimmy did right, an' I don't say that Jimmy did wrong. Maybe you can tell. 'Twas like this: