“Eighteen!” slowly repeated Zeb. “Can’t you think of anything better than apple-tree suckers for a boy of eighteen?” “Zebedee!” exclaimed the astonished deacon. “I just thought I’d ask the question,” said Zeb, with a twinkle in his gray eyes which may not have been altogether fun. “Sprouts get to be trees, sometimes.” “And bear apples, and save men’s lives--yes, and teach lessons to their own fathers,” exclaimed the deacon, as he threw the whole handful of rods over the nearest fence. “I was mistaken, Zeb. Go in and see your mother. I’m going to meeting. And--Zeb--I don’t want any tree in my orchard to bear worthless apples.” Zeb went on into the house and his father out at the gate. It may be that both of them strongly suspected how completely every word had been drunk in by the listening, loving ears of good old Mrs. Fuller. They owed a good deal to her, those two, father as well as son, and she had never looked with much favor on the apple-tree sprouts. Not, at least, since Zebedee reached his first very mischievous “’teens.” There was little danger that the orchard would ever again be drawn upon for Zeb’s benefit. The occurrences of the day, however, had been by no means private property. Not only the crew of Zeb’s boat, but the half-score of lyers-in-wait behind the willows had vigorously distributed varying versions of the affair, and the Rev. Dr. Solomon Dryer had aided them more than a little. The latter, indeed, had found “company” awaiting him on his return home, and he had delivered the history of the dangers from which he had escaped to a half roomful of sympathizing auditors. “Drown you!” exclaimed his better-half, through her firmly clinched false teeth--that is, if a man’s third wife can fairly be considered so large a fraction of him as that--“drown you, my dear? Did the young ruffians go so far as that?” At this point, however, the solemn-visaged matron was interrupted by a merry, ringing peal of laughter. “Euphemia Dryer!” “Effie, my own daughter! To think of your discerning, in such a matter, any sufficient occasion for levity!” Neither the doctor’s third wife nor the doctor himself seemed capable of expressing their astonishment, but the laughter was cut short with: “Oh, papa, I didn’t mean anything naughty, but I was thinking how funny it must have seemed to see old Mr. Todderley plump into the pond in that way. And how he and Pat Murphy must have looked when they were pulled out. It’s too funny for anything!” Alas, for poor Effie, her rosy face and her mirth were both ordered out of the parlor, for Mrs. Dryer discerned that the latter had spread with dreadful rapidity among her guests. Even then, however, Effie had no sooner disappeared than Mrs. Dryer kindly apologized for her. “Young and giddy,” she said, “and so thoughtless, just like her poor mother, the doctor’s second, you know. She frequently loses control of her risible faculties.”