"Now it's strange," he began, with an air of mysterious solemnity; "there was three nights runnin' that I dreamed I found a thousand-dollar bill to the right hand corner of my bury drawer, and every mornin' when I woke up and went to git it--it wa'n't there, so I know the rats must 'a' carried it off in the night, and a pretty shabby trick to play on a feller, too--but then you can't blame the poor devils for wantin' a little pin money. "Did I ever tell ye how Uncle Randal tried to clear 'em out 'o his barn? Wall, he traded with Sim Peck up to West Wallen, a peck o' clams for an old cat o' hisn, that was about the size, Uncle Randal said, of a yearlin' calf, and he turned her into the barn along o' the rats, and shut the door, and the next mornin', he went out and there was a few little pieces of fur flyin' around and devil a--devil a cat! Uncle Randal said." "You're the D--d--d--you're it, yourself, Harvey!" stammered Ned Vickery. "You'd better look out, Ned," Harvey giggled, "we're all a little nearer'n second cousins down here to Wallencamp. Ned's mother didn't use to let him go to school much, teacher," Harvey added, turning to me; "it used to wear him out luggin' home his 'Reward o' merit' cards." "I n-n-never got any," Ned retorted, blushing desperately through his dark skin; "n-n-nor you either!" "I guess that's so, Harvey," said Lovell Barlow, quite gravely; "I rather think that's so, Harvey--ahem, I guess it is." When my visitors rose to depart they formed in line, with George Olver and Luther at the head. George Olver was the spokesman of the group. He offered me his strong brown hand in hearty corroboration of his words: "We're a roughish sort of a set down here, teacher, but whenever you want friends you'll know right whar' to find us; we mean that straight through and fair an' kindly." I thanked him, and then Luther gave me his hand, but did not kiss me, in departing. Each member of the phalanx gave me his hand in turn, with a hearty "Good night," and so they passed out. The door closed behind them. I meditated a space, and when I looked up, there was Lovell Barlow's pale face peering into the room. "Ahem--Miss Hungerford!" he murmured, in awful accents: "Miss Hungerford!" Could it be some telegram from my home thus mysteriously arrived? The thought flashed through my mind before reason could act. "What is it?" I gasped, hastening to meet the informer. Lovell Barlow handed me a picture; it was a small daguerreotype, in which the mild and beneficent features of that worthy being himself shone above his own unmistakable spade-shaped whiskers. "Would you like it, Miss Hungerford?" said he, still with the same deeply impressive air; "would you, now, really, Miss Hungerford? would you like it, now?"