Such congregations of villagers are often said to be composed of loafers and loungers, but it was not so at Fernborough. The men who represented the brains and marrow of the town met there. It was the home of the town debating society and supplied a free forum for the discussion of public questions. If the advanced ideas in statesmanship and social economy incubated there could have become the property of the nation, our country would have grown wiser and better. But for the intense cold the company gathered there on the evening in question would have been much larger. Benoni Hill, the former proprietor of the store and the richest man in town, did not think his wealth was any reason why he should hold aloof or consider himself above his neighbours, whose patronage had been the foundation of his fortune. He was given an old arm-chair while the others sat upon soap-boxes and nail-kegs. Cobb's Twins, William and James, were there, Emmanuel Howe, the minister's son, and Bob Wood who still sang bass in the village church choir. The store door was opened letting in a gust of cold air which made all draw nearer to the red-hot stove. The newcomer was Samuel Hill, Benoni's son. A chorus of voices cried: “Hello, Sam!” and a place was made for him so he could thaw out his almost frozen fingers. “It's mighty cold, ain't it?” said his father. “Well, I should smile,” replied Sam. This expression he had heard the last time he was in the city, and he derived great pleasure from its repetition. “How's Tilly?” asked Bob Wood. “Able to be up and have her bed made.” All laughed at the rejoinder. Smiles and laughter are easily evoked in a village grocery. Mr. Obadiah Strout and Mr. Hiram Maxwell, general partners, were in the private office, a small room adjoining the post-office. Mr. Strout was smoking a cigar and reading a letter between the puffs. Hiram, with his chair tilted back against the wall, was smoking his after-supper pipe, for it was after seven o'clock in the evening. “Mr. Maxwell,” said Obadiah, laying down the letter he had been reading, “this is from the trustees of the estate of the Honourable Quincy Adams Sawyer, formerly our special partner, and the ex-Governor of this Commonwealth. I mention the fact of him being our former special partner first, before I said anything about his political elevation, for I don't believe, Mr. Maxwell, that he would ever have been Governor if he hadn't jined in with us.” Mr. Strout always called Hiram “Mr. Maxwell,” when they talked over business affairs. Hiram blew a cloud from his pipe. “Wall, I guess they're putty well satisfied with what we've been doin', ain't they?” Mr. Strout leaned back in his chair with a self-satisfied look on his face. “Wall, they must be a pretty near set if they expect more'n twelve per cent, on the capital. No, they're all right, 'though one of 'em, that Mr. Merry, is mighty inquisitive 'bout small things. Marryin' inter the Sawyer family 'counts for it, I s'pose.”