We swept up the barn floor and set a long table there, improvised out of boards and saw horses. Ruth decorated it with green and with wild flowers. We served cold meats, bread and butter, ice cream and cake, coffee and milk, to some seventy-five grown-ups and Lord knows how many children. The latter made the whole country-side spring to life as though by magic. If a happier, more enthusiastic group than our former neighbors ever gathered together under one roof I’d like to see them. Ruth, Dick, and myself acted as waiters, with plenty of assistance from everyone, and saw to it that all had as much as they could eat. The village people came more out of curiosity than anything else, I imagine. Ed Barclay, the auctioneer, was there and I liked him even better than at first on further acquaintance. Seth, Josh and Jim turned up in spite of their aversion to Dagoes. Then the Reverend Percy Cunningham, pastor of the Methodist Church, came with his wife. He was a slight, very serious man, dressed in black like an undertaker. Deacon Weston, said to be the richest man in town, also dropped in for a minute and bade me welcome. He had a thin, hard face that hinted as to how he had acquired his wealth, and later I found out that my guess was sound. Horatio Moulton, who kept the village store, was another who stopped to shake hands. But the fellow out of the whole lot who interested me most was Giuseppe Dardoni, the landed proprietor of whom Tony had spoken to me. In spite of the fact that financially he was one of the strongest men in town he was never called anything but Joe--not so much in a spirit of good fellowship as with the easy familiarity people speak to a Chinaman or a no-account Indian. He never resented the slight openly, but I had long since learned that these people appreciate being given the dignity of their full name. Signor Dardoni was a man of forty-five, I should judge. He was slight and wiry of build, with a kindly face and smiling eyes. His hair was turning gray and he was extremely courteous and gentle mannered. Neither in dress nor speech did he betray the fact that he was any more prosperous than most of his fellow citizens. I noticed, however, that he drove up with his daughter behind a very good horse and in a well-kept sulky. He greeted everyone with a good-natured smile, and Seth who happened to be standing near introduced us. “Joe,” he said, “let me make ye ’quainted with Bill Carleton who’s figgerin’ on settlin’ here.” “I’ve heard much of you,” I said to him, speaking in Italian, to Seth’s disgust. “And I have heard much of Signor Carleton. But you have traveled in Italy?” he asked. “Yes,” I answered, “in Little Italy.” He laughed at that and I took him to meet Ruth. Later we adjourned into the house where, over a bottle of smuggled Italian wine, which one of the boys had given me, I learned more about him. We passed a pleasant half hour and when he left I told him that I wanted to come over and visit him.