The “perfect boarding house” is situated a quarter of a mile beyond “Whittaker's Hill,” nearly opposite the Salters homestead. The sign, hung on the pole by the front gate, reads, “Bayport Hotel. Bailey Bangs, Proprietor,” but no one except the stranger in Bayport accepts that sign seriously. When, owing to an unexpected change in the administration at Washington, Mr. Bangs was obliged to relinquish his position as our village postmaster, his wife came to the rescue with the proposal that they open a boarding house. “'Whatsoe'er you find to do,' quoted Keturah at sewing-circle meeting, 'do it then with all your might!' That's a good Sabbath-school hymn tune and it's good sense besides. I intend to make it my life work to run just as complete a--a eatin' and lodgin' establishment as I can. If, when I'm laid to rest, they can put onto my gravestone, 'She run the perfect boardin' house,' I'LL be satisfied.” This remark, and subsequent similar declarations, were widely quoted, and, therefore, though casual visitors may refer to the “Bayport Hotel,” to us natives the Bangs residence is always “Keturah's perfect boarding house.” As for the sign's affirmation of Mr. Bangs proprietorship, that is considered the cream of the joke. The idea of meek, bald-headed little Bailey posing as proprietor of anything while his wife is on deck, tickles Bayport's sense of humor. The perspiring delinquents panted into the yard of the perfect boarding house and tremblingly opened the door leading to the dining room. Dinner was well under way, and Mrs. Bangs, enthroned at the end of the long table, behind the silver-plated teapot, was waiting to receive them. The silence was appalling. “Sorry to be a little behindhand, Ketury,” stammered Asaph hurriedly. “Town affairs are important, of course, and can't be neglected. I--” “Yes, yes; that's so, Ketury,” cut in Mr. Bangs. “You see--” “Hum! Yes, I see.” Keturah's tone was several degrees below freezing. “Hum! I s'pose 'twas town affairs kept you, too, hey?” “Well, well--er--not exactly, as you might say, but--” Bailey squeezed himself into the armchair at the end of the table opposite his wife, the end which, with sarcasm not the less keen for being unintentional, was called the “head.” “Not exactly town affairs, 'twan't that kept me, Ketury, but--My! don't them cod cheeks smell good? You always could cook cod cheeks, if I do say it.” The compliment was wasted. Mrs. Bangs had a sermon to deliver, and its text was not “cod cheeks.”