One of the last arrivals was a man who had walked many miles to visit her on her birthday. He drew after him a toy express wagon. He was patriarchal in appearance, with a long white beard and eyes more shrewd than kindly, and yet it was a kindly spirit that had drawn him ten miles out of his accustomed itinerary that he might pay his respects to the woman who had never bought a single one of his wares, but who had always given him a pleasant salutation and had more than once invited him to come in and partake of berries and milk, or, if it was wintertime, to have a cup of coffee and fortify himself against the elements. It was Isidor Pohalski, an old man about thirty years Mrs. Hartlett’s junior, a peddler by occupation, who in summer drew his wares around the country on a little express wagon and in winter drew them on a boy’s sled. (So they told me.) He had brought a present too, a bertha of Belgian lace, and when I saw him and Father Hogan and Rev. Mr. Hughson and the bank president and the artists so near together it gave me a kind of lion and lamb feeling that smacked of the millennium. “Do you mean it for me?” asked Mrs. Hartlett, recognising the beautiful lace. Isidor nodded, saying nothing. His English was for but one at a time. In a crowd he was reduced to signs. “Much thanks. Much thanks,” said Mrs. Hartlett, quaintly, being one of those who talk to a foreigner with special idioms. She held out her hand and shook his and said, “You stay for lemonade? Yes?” The Hebrew nodded and smiled and stayed. There was one surprise connected with the very informal exercises of the afternoon and that was the gift by Mrs. Hughson on behalf of the people generally of a rouleau made up of one hundred gold dollars. “May your pathway to heaven be paved wid ’em,” said the irrepressible Pat, stepping up and shaking hands with her. “Thank you, sir,” said she, and Pat walked off with his head in the air and brimming over with good feeling—and suppressed oaths. “Won’t you sing your song, Mrs. Hartlett?” asked Cherry. “I’m afraid I’m not in very good voice to-day,” said the old lady with an exaggerated simper and then she hastened to say, “That’s what people used to say when I was a girl. There was much more singing then than there is now, but it was always considered right to apologise for one’s voice.” She cleared her throat and then she turned to the doctor, who sat near her, and said, “I wanted to dance, to-day, but Dr. Ludlow says that at my age the less I dance the better for my health—and I dare say he is right.”