It was only, however, at the coffee-urn of the Academy principal that anything like gloom interfered with the pervading cheerfulness of tone which the common difficulty seemed to be met. Euphemia would have been as smiling as a June sunrise about it, and even the doctor would speedily have recovered from his temporary depression, but Mrs. Dryer failed to discern any ray of comfort. “It’s a piece of outrageous and unparalleled defiance,” she assured her husband and stepdaughter, for the three-and-thirtieth time. “Your influence and authority in this community will be permanently compromised unless you succeed in probing this matter to the very bottom and bringing the lawless perpetrators to condign justice. Why, Dr. Dryer, that unfortunate heifer might have pulled down the bell.” “I am compelled to admit the possibility of such a termination of her efforts to liberate herself,” moodily responded the doctor, unmindful of Effie’s suggestion: “Or to get at the apples.” “The entire operation,” he continued, “is enveloped in impenetrable mystery. I am anxious to ascertain if Mr. Brayton has evolved any probable solution. He afterwards ascended to the belfry to remove the rope from its attachments.” “Brayton!” scornfully exclaimed Mrs. Dryer. “If you don’t learn anything till you get it from him! Why, I’m expecting every day to hear that the boys have begun to call him George.” “Dorothy Jane----” “It’s no use, Doctor; you won’t have a cow or a bell or an Academy, or anything else, before the end of this term, if you don’t manage somehow to accomplish something.” There was no denying that the exigency was one that called for special exertion, but Effie Dryer had seen George Brayton prying around the Academy building very early that morning, and she would have given more than her stepmother seemed disposed to for a statement of his views concerning the heifer and the bell. It had already been ascertained that the peck measure was the doctor’s own, but no one had succeeded in identifying what remained of the green apples. Meantime, on his way back from his errand of gratitude that morning, Puff Evans had been hailed by Pat Murphy from the door of the grist-mill. “The top o’ the mornin’ to yez. It’s sorry I am to hear the bad news about yer boat.” “My boat?” responded Puff. “Yis,” said Pat, “and the master towld me to offer yez the pick of his lumber yon, ave ye was minded to build another.” “And what for?” asked Puff. “Isn’t the boat a good one?” “Sure enough,” said Pat; “she’s only too good for a Rodney lawyer. I hope she’ll upset wid him the day he puts his foot in her.” By this time Puff began to comprehend the state of his neighbor’s mind on the boat question, and he at once proceeded to an explanation which made the kind-hearted Irishman break out into all sorts of encomiums upon the “young jintleman from the city.” “It’s all right,” said Puff.