"I'm obliged to ye, Deacon Brewer," she said. "Is this the man who sent the telegram? Won't ye come in and set down?" "Oh, yes," cried Abby ecstatically. "Get out, Mr. Wilkins! I want to show you the black horse, and all the hens." "I must be gettin' back," muttered the Deacon. "Could you let us have a bite of breakfast?" inquired McAllister. "My train doesn't go until twelve o'clock." To return to Bangor at this particular time did not suit him. "Such as it is," replied Miss Higgins. "Could you arrange to call out for me in an hour or so?" asked McAllister. "I reckon I kin," said the Deacon with some reluctance. "I'll hev ter charge ye fifty cents." "Of course," said McAllister. Wilkins took down the parcels, and the Deacon drove slowly away. "I'll scrape somethin' together in a few minutes," said Miss Higgins. "How much was that telegram?" "Oh, that's all right!" said the abashed clubman. "No, it ain't. Money's money. Was it ez much ez a quarter?" McAllister acknowledged the amount. "I thought so," commented Miss Higgins. "It was wuth it." She had the money all ready and handed it to McAllister. Etiquette seemed to demand its acceptance. "Did you say your name was McAllister? Who's this man?" "His name is Wilkins." "Well," said Aunt Abby, "one of ye might split up that log, if ye don't mind, while I get the breakfast." She turned into the house. McAllister looked doubtfully at the wood-pile. "Let Mr. Wilkins chop the wood!" shouted Abby; "I want to show you the ba-an." "Wilkins," said McAllister, "wood-chopping is an art sanctified in this country by tradition." "Very good, sir," answered Wilkins. Abby grasped McAllister's hand and tugged him joyfully over the poverty-stricken farm. They visited the orchard, the pig-sty, the hen-house, admired the horse that had been a girl, and ended at the water's edge. "We ketch salmon here in the spring," explained Abby; "and smelts." Across the eddying river quiet farms slept in the hot sunshine. Two men in a dory swung slowly up-stream. At their feet the clear water rippled against the stones. In his mind the clubman pictured the stifling city and the squalor of relative existence there. "It's beautiful, Abby," he said. "It's the loveliest place in the whole world," she answered, holding his hand tightly. "And I shall never, never go away." Behind them came the shrill tones of Aunt Abby's voice bidding them to breakfast. Wilkins, coatless, was bearing some mangled fragments of log toward the kitchen. His beaded face spoke unutterable dejection. "Well, set daown; it's all there is," said Miss Higgins. McAllister sat, and Abby climbed into a high chair. Wilkins remained standing. "Ain't ye goin' to set?" inquired Miss Higgins. Wilkins reddened. "Well, ye be the most bashful man I ever met," remarked the lady. "Set daown and eat yer victuals." "Sit down," said McAllister, and for the second time master and man shared a meal.