One day in the beginning of October I wrote a brief note to the minister. Now I had never seriously considered the possibility of ignoring the promise I had made during my lapse of identity, but I will confess that it was with a pang I prepared to redeem it, for I loved every one of those conical heaps that dotted my fields, with a passionate first love that I knew I could never feel again. Indeed, if I could have preserved them from decay, I would rather have left the pyramids where they stood, as a lasting monument to the genius of the city man who raised more than two thousand dollars worth of potatoes at a cost of less than one thousand, but with iron resolution I determined to keep to the letter of my promise. Of course, I might have done so in a private and incidental manner, but I frankly admit that I believe if a man chooses to be noble and generous he ought to be so in a manner that gives him the most enjoyment and furnishes the most telling example to others. On the morning of the twenty-first of October the Fairmans arrived to spend with us the first anniversary of their wedding, and not a small part of the pleasure of seeing them again was, to me, the delighted admiration they expressed on making a tour of the pyramids. Aunt Sophy was so exuberant over my success, and her husband so frankly astonished when he rapidly calculated the value of the crop in dollars and cents, that I had much difficulty in retaining my usual modest and unassuming manner. Even Marion, despite a certain inflexible set to her mouth that I detected under her company expression, couldn't help looking regretfully pleased. We had a most enjoyable dinner, sitting so long over the table that Paul excused himself and went out to play, but it was only a short time until he came running back with the petrifying news that there was a funeral entering the gate. There was a simultaneous rush to the front windows, and out on the road we all saw a long line of democrats beginning to move slowly through our gate. Between the trees, at the head of the procession, we caught fleeting glimpses of a professional silk hat and a suit of black clothes. "Henry!" cried Marion, with a little shriek. "You wouldn't--let them--bury----?" "Well, I don't know. If it's a Waydean--and the custom----" "_Henry!_" shrieked Aunt Sophy, clasping Marion in her arms. "Really," began Mr. Fairman, "I--I--" "They've stopped in the yard," yelled Paul, putting his head in the doorway. I headed the rush to the back window, then one more rush brought us all into the yard, Mr. Fairman in the rear, supporting the ladies, while Paul, who revels in sudden excitement, skipped about us in glee. The driver of the first wagon was Peter Waydean; the professional person descending with his back to us was the Rev. Daniel Hughes. He came forward with a genial smile and greeted me warmly. "Mr. Carton," he said, "we have come to take advantage of----"