A few nights afterwards I heard that something was to happen in the town. I cannot now remember how I heard, but at any rate I went to bed, and took care not to go to sleep. About midnight my brother and I got up and went to the public square. Twenty or thirty men and boys had gathered at the flag-pole. I did not know all their names, but I knew there were some of the best people in the place. I am certain I saw Deacon Cole, and I know that we went over to Squire Allen’s carriage-house and got a large plank which he had told the crowd they might have. The men had sticks and stones and eggs, and we all went to the man’s house. When we reached the fence, we opened the gate and went inside and began throwing stones and sticks at the house and through the windows; and we broke in the front door with Squire Allen’s plank. All the men and boys hooted and jeered with the greatest glee. I can still remember seeing a half-dressed man run out of the back door of the house, down the garden path, to get away. I can never forget his scared white face as he passed me in the gloom. After breaking all the doors and windows, we went back home and went to bed, thinking we had done something brave and noble, and helped the morals of the town. The next day little knots of people gathered around the house and in the streets and on the square, to talk about the “raid.” Nearly all of them agreed that we had done exactly right. There were only a few people, and those by no means the best citizens, who raised the faintest objection to what had been done. Aunt Louisa was radiant. She made her tour of the neighborhood and told how she approved of the bravery of the men and boys. She said that after this everyone would know that Farmington was a moral town. The hunted man died a year or so afterwards, and someone bought him a lonely grave on the outskirts of the churchyard where he could not possibly harm anyone who lay slumbering there, and then they buried him in the ground without regret. There was much discussion as to whether or not he should have a Christian funeral; but finally the old preacher decided that the ways of the Lord were past finding out, and the question should be left to Him to settle, and that he would preach a regular sermon, just as he did for all the rest. When it came Aunt Louisa’s turn for a funeral, the whole town was in mourning. The choir practised the night before the funeral, so they might sing their very best, and the preacher never spoke so feelingly before. All the people in the room cried as if she were their dearest friend. Then they took her to the little graveyard and lowered her gently down beside Truman. Everyone said it was a “beautiful funeral.” In a few months a fine monument was placed on the little lot,—one almost as grand as Squire Allen’s. She left no children, and in her will she provided that all the property should be taken for the funeral and for a monument, except a small bequest to foreign missions.