She was warming to the subject, and Alex. tried to follow her as she told rapidly that Amos Marsh, who lived near the farm, spent half his time there,—he and Mr. Crosby were such fast friends and both such good men,—not an enemy in the world. Then she told how surprised people were when her brother sold his farm to Mr. Marsh, who went there at once to live, and how shocked was the whole community when, not long after the sale, Mr. Crosby was killed on the railroad. “Mr. Marsh lived on alone,” she said, “and naturally he grew a little queer,—used to talk to himself, and the neighbors said he was off. He talked a good deal to my brother, Mr. Crosby, when nobody was near him, and they say he did this till he died. At last he rented the place and went to Denver, and we saw no more of him till two years ago, when he spent a few days in New York and stopped with us. He was straight enough then in his mind, but kept talking about the time he lived on the farm. He asked about your family, of which he’d kept track, but we couldn’t tell him much, being we are in different spheres,—you in the smart set and we just plain folks, living in the house we bought when we was married. We was quite up town then compared to what we be now, but I’ve never cared to change. I like it here; folks know me, and I know folks. There is Miss Walker next door, has lived here just as long as we have, and Miss Brown the other side. Joel was first in a bank, then he was _the_ bank, then he got into Wall Street, was lucky always, till we are forehanded enough and could live up town in a brown stone if we wanted to. But, land sake, I’m happier here. Everybody knows us, or leastwise Joel. He frequently lends money on good security, you know.” “Yes,” Alex. interposed, not caring to hear more of her family history, and anxious to ask an important question. “Yes, but about Uncle Amos, who lived on the farm. Wasn’t he a good man?” “One of the best the Lord ever made. No one ever said a word against him,” was the hearty response, which lifted a load from Alex.’s mind. There was no wrong of any account he was to right. It was all a fancy of a morbid old man, who, from living alone, had dwelt upon and magnified some trivial circumstance, making a mountain of a mole hill. If he ever found a wrong he should right it, of course, but he should not hunt for or advertise it, and he was glad, for he hated trouble and didn’t know how to right wrongs, and he now began to think of the _girl_, and wonder how he could manage to see her. Suddenly from the basement below there came a faint odor of something burning, and stepping to the door, Mrs. Pledger called: “Sherry, Sherry, won’t you go down to the kitchen and shove back the chicken stew? It is bilin’ over.” “Yes, auntie,” came in a clear, young voice, and Alex. heard the swish of a gown on the stairs and through the hall down to the basement.