“Brayton’s was the only good pair of eyes among ’em,” said Zeb, “and he was looking up, too, most of the time. But will it toll again?” “How should I know?” asked Bar. “Look here,” exclaimed Zeb; “there isn’t another chap in or about Ogleport that can do that belfry climbing. Brayton understands that as well as I do.” “I’m afraid he does,” said Val, thoughtfully. “If there should be a wind this afternoon, now?” “Oh! that’s it, is it?” exclaimed Zeb. “Why didn’t I think of that before? I give it up. You fellows beat me. To think that I should never have thought of the wind!” There was little more to be done except to explain the exact particulars, and when Bar had done that, Zeb stopped in front of him and removed from his head the broad-brimmed and somewhat battered “straw,” saying, “Barnaby Vernon, you can take my hat. I think I must emigrate.” “Emigrate?” said Val Manning. “Yes,” replied Zeb, dolefully; “there isn’t room for him and me in the same village. And yet I must remain and see how he and Solomon will work together. Old Sol has his eye on you, my boy, but you needn’t be afraid of George Brayton. I’ve great confidence in George.” But the boys were not the only part of the village population that continued to be exercised about the bell business. Dr. Dryer instituted what he called “an exhaustive analysis of the mysterious phenomenon” at an early hour in the forenoon, but he never put his head above the “deck,” and he acquired no additional wisdom. Brayton had deemed his own search of the previous night sufficient for the present, and he had, besides, some private matters of his own to attend to that day. His morning mail had brought him news of some of these, and had sent him to Mrs. Wood with a request that she would prepare a room for his mother and sister, who were coming to pay him a visit. There was no reason, thought his landlady, why he should get so very much flushed in the face about it; but George Brayton did not care the rest of that day whether the Academy had one bell or ten. Mrs. Dryer did, however, and she talked “bell” till her pretty stepdaughter could stand it no longer, but put on her bonnet for a very aimless flight among her neighbors. There, too, it was the bell, the bell, till poor Effie reached a state of mind which led her to say to George Brayton, when she met him crossing the green: “Please don’t speak to me. I don’t want to hear another word about it.” “About what?” asked the very much astonished young man. “That dreadful bell!” exclaimed Effie. “Oh! I’d forgotten there was one,” replied Brayton. “You see, I’ve good news this morning. My mother and sister are coming to see me----” “How very pleasant!” interrupted Effie; “and they know nothing about the bell--there, my hat. Oh, dear me! there it goes again!”