The lawyer meditatively stroked his nose a moment and then turning without a word walked out of the house. The boy pattered on ahead. Dunham picked up the writ and followed dejectedly. “Be you goin’ to stay to the big meetin’ to-night, Squire Look?” inquired the boy, bursting with his fresh knowledge. “Mis’ Dunham and my marm and my pa and Mister Bolster are goin’ to have all the people meet at the school house and discharge teacher.” He turned his urchin’s stare of inquisitive significance on Dunham, stubbing along behind in the highway. “Mis’ Dunham come into school this afternoon and told teacher, and teacher didn’t go home after school, but I peeked in the winder, and she’s there cryin’ and----” “Bub,” said the Squire severely, “you’re anxious to grow up to be a nice big man, aren’t you?” “Yep.” “Well, there’s nothing that stunts growth like using your tongue too much. That’s why so many women are shorter and slimmer than men. Now always remember that all your life, and some day when you’ve grown up good and tall you just tell your little boys that a nice old lawyer gave you that advice about your tongue and never charged you a cent for it.” The boy stared up and down the big man, slowly slooped up the moisture of his open mouth, and closed his lips apprehensively. Mrs. Dunham was on the front porch of the neighbour’s house, defiantly awaiting their approach. “Has that paper been served?” she demanded, when they were still some distance down the path. The abandoned husband held up the fateful document, and was about to break into appealing speech, but she stamped her foot and checked him. “Not a word--not a word from you!” she screamed fiercely. “It’s all over and done and the passel tied and the string cut between us. I’m here to stay till I git my bill and allowance by the court. I shall watch that house till I git my own out of it. Then you can go to pot and see the kittle bile, for all I care. Ain’t you ashamed to face me with the stigmy of that law paper on you?” She pointed at him as at something proscribed. Her hosts were at the window, listening with manifest enjoyment. The situation maddened Dunham. “Talk to her, Squire! For pity sakes, talk to her,” he entreated, tears running down his sallow cheeks. “When she has twitted me before this I ain’t talked right to her, and I realise it all now. I’m awful sorry--I’m turrible, awful, desp’rit’ sorry I ever talked uppish to you, Esther,” he wailed. “I ain’t fell in love with any one else. I vow I ain’t. It’s diff’rent than that. I ain’t skercely realised how it was-- but I reckon I know now. I’ve been thinkin’. I was jest--I was jest----”