"No!" cried Bert. "Don't seem possible. Speakin' o' sleighs, did I ever tell you about old Deacon Temple, my great uncle? He used ter hev a story he sprung on anybody who'd listen. Cricky, how he did welcome a stranger ter town! 'Cordin' ter this story, he wuz once drivin' along on a fine crust, when his old hoss run away, an' run, an' run, an' finally upset the sleigh over a wall into a hayfield whar they was mowin', an' he fell in a haycock an' didn't hurt himself at all. Then the stranger would say: 'But how could they be mowin' in Massachusetts in sleighin' time?' and the Deacon would answer: 'They wa'n't. The old mare run so far she run into Rhode Island.'" Mrs. Temple rose. "Bert, you come home," she said, "before you think of any more o' them old ones." "Oh, jest the woodchuck," Bert pleaded. Miss Stella and I insisted on the woodchuck, so Bert sank back luxuriously, and narrated the tale. It had happened, it seems, to his grandfather and this same brother, the Deacon, when they were boys. "The old place wuz down by the river," said Bert, "an' there was a pesky 'chuck they couldn't shoot ner trap, he wuz so smart, who hed a burrow near the bank. So one day grandad seen him go in, an' he called the Deacon, an' the two of 'em sot out ter drown the critter. They lugged water in pails, takin' turns watchin' and luggin', for two hours, dumpin' it into the hole till she was nigh full up. Then they got too tuckered ter tote any more, an' sat down behind a bush ter rest. Pretty soon they seen the old woodchuck's head poke up. He looked around, careful like, but didn't see the boys behind the bush, so he come all the way out and what do you think he done?" "Tell us!" cried Miss Stella, leaning forward, her eyes twinkling. "He went down ter the river an' took a drink," said Bert. "Won't you copy the wisdom of the woodchuck?" I asked, when the laugh had subsided. Bert nodded slyly and I opened my chimney cupboard again. "It's agin all laws," said Bert, pointing a thumb toward his wife, "but it ain't every day we hev a noo neighbour in these parts. Here's to yer, once more!" The four of us walked up the road in merry mood, and the older folk left the girl and me on the porch. She held the door open, as if to go in after them, but I pleaded that the lovely June night was young. "And so are we," I added. She looked at me a moment, through the dusk, and then came out on the stoop. We moved across the dewy lawn to a bench beneath the sycamore that guarded the house, and sat down. Neither of us spoke for a long moment. Then I said abruptly: "You've only come to my house wearing a fairy cap of invisibility, since I moved in--till to-night. Won't you come to-morrow and walk through the pines? I've cleared all the slash out for you, and put planks in the swamp. The thrush won't sing for me alone." "Yes, I'll come--for the last time," she said softly. "Why for the last time?" I cried.