The young man quickened his pace, stopped long enough to hang the scythe on the porch-rail, lifted his hat from his head, and, running up the short flight of steps, held out his hand cordially to Oliver, who advanced to meet him. "Glad to see you, Mr. Horn. Madge has told us all about you. Excuse my rig--we are short of men on the farm, and I took hold. I'm glad of the chance, for I get precious little exercise since I left college. You came from East Branch by morning stage, I suppose? Oh, is that your trunk dumped out in the road? What a duffer I was not to know. Wait a minute--I'll bring it in," and he sprang down the steps. "No, let me," cried Oliver, running after him. He had not thought of his trunk since he had helped stow it in the boot outside Ezra Pollard's gate--but then he had been on his way to Margaret's! "No, you won't. Stay where you are--don't let him come, Madge." The two young men raced down the path, Juno scampering after them. John, who could outrun any man at Dartmouth, vaulted over the fence and had hold of the brass handle before Oliver could open the gate. "Fair-play!" cried Oliver, and they each grasped a handle--either one could have held it out at arm's length with one hand--and brought it up the garden-path, puffing away in pantomime as if it weighed a ton, and into the house. There they deposited it in the bedroom that was to be Oliver's during the two days of his visit at Brookfield Farm, Margaret clapping her hands in high glee, and her mother holding back the door for them to pass in. Silas Grant watched the young fellows until they disappeared inside the door, lifted himself slowly from his seat by his long arms, stretched himself, with a yawn, to his full height, and said aloud to himself as he pushed his chair back against the wall: "His father's got a negro for body-servant, has he, and a negro for butler--just like 'em. They all want somebody to wait on 'em." At dinner Oliver sat on Mrs. Grant's right--her best ear, she said--Margaret next, and John opposite. The father was at the foot, in charge of the carving-knife. During the pauses in the talk Oliver's eyes wandered around the room, falling on the queer paper lining the walls--hunting-scenes, with red-coated fox-hunters leaping five-barred gates; on the side-board covered with silver, but bare of a decanter--only a pitcher filled with cider which Hopeful Prime, the servant, a woman of forty in spectacles, and who took part in the conversation, brought from the cellar; and finally on a family portrait that hung above the fireplace. A portrait was always a loadstone to Oliver. Mrs. Grant had been watching his glance.