“You see, ’twas this way, and it happened nigh on to eighty or a hundred years ago. This tarvern wasn’t built then. T’other one that was burnt stood further up the street and was kep’ by—I can’t think of his name, but he was one of Dot’s ancestors. Beats all what a lot she has, and what a sight she thinks of ’em. Got ’em all in a book, somewhere; the one in the portrait who helped throw over the tea,—and the one who pushed the carts of hemp against the garrison. I’ve turned him wrong side up, I guess, but you know who I mean. She has him, door latch and all,—and the one who kep’ the tarvern when Mr. Dalton,—Mark’s great-grandfather,—brought his bride to town. She was handsome as a picter, they say,—with yaller curls down her back and blue eyes which looked as innocent as a baby’s. She was proud as Lucifer; wasn’t willin’ to associate with any but the high bloods; walked as if the ground wasn’t good enough for her to step on with her little morocco shoes. Dressed up in the mornin’ as much as some do in the afternoon. But then she’d nothin’ to do, for she had a hired girl, Mari, who waited on her as if she was a queen. Had a pianner,—the fust there was in town, and folks used to go up the lane and set on the wall to hear her play Money Musk and Irish Washwoman and Bonaparte’s March, and some new things they didn’t like so well. “Mr. Dalton was a first-rate man, fine looking and a perfect gentleman. Mark must be like him, and mebby that’s where your hereditary comes in. Everybody liked Mr. Dalton, and he had a kind word for everybody. He was rich for them days, and had some interest in the stages that run between Boston and Albany. The railroad wasn’t here then. ’Twas all stages, three a day each way, and they stopped at the tarvern to change horses. Them was lively times, and Dot’s ancestor made money hand over fist. Mr. Dalton paternized him a good deal. He used to go off in the stages sometimes and be gone a few days, but when he was to home he had nothin’ to do and sat on the tarvern piazza a sight talkin’ sociable with Dot’s ancestor, smokin’ and takin’ a drink now and then and treatin’ the other fellers. Everybody took a drink them days. W. C. T. U. wasn’t born. Dot’s one of ’em,—true blue, too. Don’t keep it in her cupboard for little private nips and then go a crusadin’ as some of ’em do. She hates it like p’isen, and if Johnny had lived she’d had him sign the pledge before he could walk. She’d no more let me sell toddy than she’d put her head in the oven. She’s right, too. I shouldn’t of backslid the last time if I hadn’t took some black strap and molasses for a cold. I like the stuff, and only Dot and the thought of little Johnny keeps me from drinkin’. But to return to my story.