“Are you well, Silas?” asks Pendagrast, with his arm thrown acrost Silas's shoulder. “And how's Mrs. Quinby and her good doughnuts?” smacking his lips. “And the chickens, and your vegetable garden—all doin' nicely, I hope. Well, you must make up your mind to leave these simple joys for a spell; I want you should visit me in my city home. I've come to fetch you away.” And he winks at Miller. They'd arranged the doctors was to be introduced to Silas there without his knowin' who they was, so as he wouldn't be on his guard. You see we hadn't been able to do nothing with old Doctor Smith, the valley physician; he said Silas had just as many brains as he ever had, and a heap more than the folks who had put their land in his hands to sell. But Silas said he couldn't leave home. He was awful firm about stayin' just where he was. He couldn't think of moving. “It's that dreadful cunnin' insane folks have,” whispers Miller to me. “He's suspicious of his best friend.” It was just beautiful the way Pendagrast talked with Silas, humorin' him like a little child, pleadin' with him to visit him in his city home, where there'd be prayer-meetin' every Thursday night and two regular services on Sunday. He held out every inducement he could think of, but Silas was as firm as he was gentle. It was plain he was set against leavin' the valley. Presently Pendagrast took him by the arm and says: “Gentlemen, I must go down and pay my respects to Mrs. Quinby, and beg one of those nice doughnuts off'n her. Me and my friend will return soon, I hope, to say that he has reconsidered his decision, and will go with me to pay me the visit I want him to.” And they locked arms and walked off, two as simple-souled men as you'd wish to see. We owe it to Mrs. Quinby for a knowledge of what happened down to Silas's. She listened at the keyhole after she'd fed Pendagrast a plate of doughnuts and some buttermilk. “You're actin' very wrong, Silas, to keep them folks from sellin' their land when they got the chance,” Pendagrast says, after a little friendly talk. “Yes, Mr. Miller's told me all about it. They are thinkin' of havin' you locked up in an asylum somewheres, and you'd better destroy them papers. I doubt if they are legal—” “They're legal,” says Silas, smilin' his sweetest. “I'd stake my life on that.” “Have you ever thought of them poor fellows and their bitter disappointment?” says Pendagrast, his voice tremblin'. “Have you put yourself in their place, my friend? Have you applied that great moral test to the situation? Before we go any further, would you like to kneel down beside me and say your prayers?” he says. “I know the temptations of greed, that money's the root of all evil. It can do no hurt,” he urged in that gentle winnin' voice of his. And Mrs. Quinby, beyond the door, covered her head with her apron, she was that moved by the simple soul's eloquence. She missed Silas's answer, but she heard Pendagrast go on.