“Do you want some wood brought in?” Anthony inquired; “and how does the washer I put on the hot water spigot work?” “A little wood, if you please; and the spigot's good as new.” She sat on a chair, lifting a harassed gaze to his serious solicitation. “I've had a dreadful time since you were here last--an evilish-appearing man knocked and knocked, at one door and again at another.” Her voice sank to a shrill whisper, “he was after the money.” She nodded so vigorously that the knot fell in a straggling whisp across her eyes. “Cousin Alonzo sent him.” “Your cousin Alonzo has been dead ten years,” he interposed patiently, going once more over that familiar ground. “Probably it was a man wanting to sell gas stoves.” “You don't know Alonzo,” she persisted, unconvinced; “I should have to see his corp'. He knows I've a comfortable sum put by, and's hard after it for his wenching and such practices: small good, or bad, he'll get of it when my time comes.” He passed through the hall to the kitchen, and, unchaining the back door, brought a basket of cut wood from a shed, and piled it beside the stove. Mrs. Bosbyshell inspected with a critical eye the fastening of the door. There was a swollen window sash to release above, a mattress to turn, when he was waved ceremoniously into a formal, darkened chamber. The musty spice of rose pot-pourri lingered in the flat air; old mahogany--rush bottomed chairs, flute-legged table, a highboy and Dutch clock--glimmered about the walls. A marble topped stand bore orderly volumes in maroon and primrose morocco, the top one entitled, “The Gentlewoman's Garland. A Gift Book.” From a triangular cupboard, she produced a decanter with a carved design of bees and cobalt clover, and a plate of crumbling currant cake. “A sup of dandelion cordial,” she announced, “a bite of sweet. Growing boys must be fed.” She sat, and with patent satisfaction watched Anthony consume the ropy syrup and cake. “I met a girl last night,” he told her intimately; “she had hair like--like a roman candle.” “Did you burn your heart up in it?” “She told me that I was like the early morning,” he confided with a rush. Mrs. Bosbyshell nodded her approval.