just her name, Christina Dalton, upon it. Some people censured him for this, and twice he found the stone lying upon the ground face down, where it had been thrown by some malicious or mischievous person. Without a word of comment he put it in its place, and whatever pain or humiliation he felt for his ancestor he made no sign, and held his head as high as if, through the vista of nearly a hundred years, no dark crime was looming which could in any possible way touch his good name. He had come to Ridgefield as a teacher from Amherst College, where he had been for two years, and had taken his place among the best people of the town. Once or twice, after correcting an unruly boy, he found a chalk picture of a gallows on the blackboard in the morning, and, instead of rubbing it out, he drew a fair likeness of the boy artist dangling by the rope and left it there all day. There were no more insulting pictures upon the board, and his pupils treated him with great respect. But school teaching was not to his taste, and he finally gave it up and hired to Mr. Taylor, who was never tired of eulogizing him, and who finished his story of the Dalton house by saying: “There’s no more hereditary in Mark than there is in me. No, sir! His folks lived in New Bedford. Father was a sea captain and drowned; mother died a natural death, and left him a little money; not much, and he’s willin’ to do anything for an honest livin’. If there’s anything in envirymen’ he’s got it strong. Mari brought up his grandfather Robert and had him go to college. He was here once. The Daltons was high bloods and never took much notice of him on account of his mother. But, bless your soul, he wasn’t to blame for her any more than Mark is. Mari, who married in Canada, was a good woman, and great-great-grandmother to Jeff, who acts at times as if possessed with the devil; has some habits I don’t like, but he’ll git over ’em, for he’s a good boy on the whole,—well meanin’ and friendly. His name is Jefferson Wilkes. His folks is all dead and he was jest a wafer on the streets in Boston, turnin’ somersets for a penny a turn and sleepin’ in a big hogshead on the wharf at night when Mark found him. He’d kep’ track of Mari’s pedigree, tracin’ ’em down to the boy and was huntin’ for him. He asked Dot to take him, and said if he didn’t earn his board he’d pay the rest. He’ll get plenty of envirymen’ here, for Dot makes him toe the mark, especially Sundays, learnin’ the catechism and verses in the Bible, and boxes his ears when he don’t behave. Mark laughs and gives him a stick of candy for every box. Pays for it, though. He’s honesty itself. I’d trust him with all I own. “Yes, Dotty. I’ll be there,” he added, as there came ’round the corner a call to which he always paid attention. “I’ll be back in a few minutes and tell you the rest,” he said, as he hurried away in the direction of the call. CHAPTER VI. EXPECTED GUESTS.