I was travelling with my old friend, Ned Brace, when we stopped at the dusk of the evening at a house on the road-side, for the night. Here we found three nice, tidy, aged matrons, the youngest of whom could not have been under sixty; one of them of course was the lady of the house, whose husband, old as he was, had gone from home upon a land-exploring expedition. She received us hospitably, had our horses well attended to, and soon prepared for us a comfortable supper. While these things were doing, Ned and I engaged the other two in conversation; in the course of which, Ned deported himself with becoming seriousness. The kind lady of the house occasionally joined us, and became permanently one of the party, from the time the first dish was placed on the table. At the usual hour we were summoned to supper; after which the conversation turned upon marriages, happy and unhappy, strange, unequal, runaways, &c. Ned rose at last, and asked the landlady where we should sleep. She pointed to an open shed-room adjoining the room in which we were sitting, and separated from it by a log partition, between the spaces of which might be seen all that passed in the dining-room; and so close to the fire-place of this apartment, that a loud whisper might be easily heard from one to the other. I could not resist the temptation of casting an eye through the cracks of the partition to see the effect of Ned’s wonderful stories upon the kind ladies. Mrs. Barney (it is time to give their names) was sitting in a thoughtful posture; her left hand supporting her chin, and her knee supporting her left elbow. Her countenance was that of one who suffers from a slight tooth-ache. Mrs. Shad leaned forward, resting her fore-arm on her knees, and looking into the fire as if she saw _groups of children_ playing in it. Mrs. Reed, the landlady, who was the fattest of the three, was thinking and laughing alternately at short intervals. From my bed it required but a slight change of position to see any one of the group at pleasure. I was no sooner composed on my pillow, than the old ladies drew their chairs close together, and began the following colloquy in a low undertone, which rose as it progressed: _Mrs. Barney._ Didn’t that man say them was two men that got married to one another? _Mrs. Shad._ It seemed to me so. _Mrs. Reed._ Why to be sure he did.—I know he said so; for he said what their names was. _Mrs. B._ Well, in the name o’ sense, what did the man mean? _Mrs. R._ Why, bless your heart and soul, honey! that’s what I’ve been thinkin’ about. It seems mighty curious to me some how or other. I can’t study it out, nohow. _Mrs. S._ The man must be jokin’, certainly. _Mrs. R._ No, he wasn’t jokin’; for I looked at him, and he was just as much in yearnest as anybody I ever _seed_; and besides, no _Christian_ man would tell such a story in that solemn way. _Mrs. S._ But la’ messy! Mis’ Reed, it can’t be so. It doesn’t stand to reason, don’t you know it don’t?