"Nick," said Mr. Opp, equally hurt, "is that the way for a subordinate reporter to talk to a' editor? You don't seem to realize that this here is a very serious and large transaction. There may be hundreds of dollars involved. It's a' awful weight of responsibility for one man. I'm willing to finance it and conduct the main issues, but I've got to have the backing of all the other parties. Now it's with you whether the preacher gets there or not." "Shall I hunt up Mat Lucas, too?" asked Nick as he started forth. "No; that's my branch of the work: but--say--Nick, your sister will have to be there; she owns some shares." "All right," said Nick; "her buggy is hitched up in front of Tucker's. I'll tell her to wait till you come." Mr. Opp was not long in following. He walked down the road with an important stride, his bosom scarcely able to accommodate the feeling of pride and responsibility that swelled it. He was in a position of trust; his fellow-citizens would look to him, a man of larger experience and business ability, to deal with these moneyed strangers. He would be fair, but shrewd. He knew the clever wiles of the capitalists; he would meet them with calm but unyielding dignity. It was in this mood that he came upon Miss Jim, who was in the act of disentangling a long lace scarf from her buggy whip. Her flushed face and flashing eyes gave such unmistakable signs of wrath that Mr. Opp glanced apprehensively at the whip in her hand, and then at Jimmy Fallows, who was hitching her horse. "Howdy, Mr. Opp," she said. "It's a pleasure to meet a gentleman, after what I've seen." "I hope," said Mr. Opp, "that our friend here ain't been indulging in his customary--" "It ain't Mr. Fallows," she broke in sharply; "it's Mr. Tucker. He ain't got the feeling of a broomstick." "Now, Miss Jim," began Jimmy Fallows in a teasing tone; but the lady turned her back upon him and addressed Mr. Opp. "You see this portrait," she said angrily, pulling it out from under the seat. "It took me four weeks, including two Sunday afternoons, to make it. I begun it the second week after Mrs. Tucker died, when I seen him takin' on so hard at church. He was cryin' so when they took up the collection that he never even seen the plate pass him. I went right home and set to work on this here portrait, thinking he'd be glad and willing to buy it from me. Wouldn't you, if you was a widower?" Mr. Opp gazed doubtfully at the picture, which represented Mr. Tucker sitting disconsolately beside a grave, with a black-bordered handkerchief held lightly between his fingers. A weeping-willow drooped above him, and on the tombstone at his side were two angels supporting the initials of the late Mrs. Tucker.