evidence of rude comfort and coarse plenty that reigned there--and in its tumbledown disrepair it had an aspect of dispirited helplessness. Here Valeria, an orphan from her infancy, dwelt with her father's parents, who always of small means had become yearly a more precarious support. The ancient grandmother was sunken in many infirmities, and the household tasks had all fallen to the lot of Valeria. Latterly a stroke of paralysis had given old man Clee an awful annotation on the chapter of age and poverty upon which he was entering, and his little farm was fast growing up in brambles. “But 't ain't no differ, gran Mad,” Valeria often sought to reassure him. “I'll work some way out.” And when he would irritably flout the possibility that she could do aught to materially avert disaster she was wont to protest: “You jes' watch _me. I'll_ find out some way. I be ez knowin' ez any old _owel_.” Despite her slender physique and her recurrent heavy tasks the drear doom of poverty with its multiform menace had cast no shadow on her ethereal face, and her pensive dark gray eyes were full of serene light as she met the visitor at the bars. A glimmer of mirth began to scintillate beneath her long brown lashes, and she spoke first. “The folks in the mountings air mighty nigh skeered out'n thar boots by yer foolishness, Brent”--she sought to conserve a mien of reproof. “They 'low ez it war a manifestation of the Evil One.” Brent laughed delightedly. “Warn't it prime?” he said. “But I never expected ter work sech a scatteration of the crowd Thar skeer plumb terrified _me_. I jes' set out with the nimblest, an' run from the devil myself.” “Won't them candidates fur office be mighty mad if they find out what it war sure enough?” she queried anxiously. “They gin the crowd a barbecue an' bran dance, an' arter all, the folks got quit of hevin' ter hear them speak an' jaw about thar old politics an' sech.” “Them candidates air hoppin' mad fur true,” he admitted. “I been down yander at Gilfillan's store in the Cove an' I hearn the loafers thar talkin' powerful 'bout the strange happening. An' them candidates war thar gittin' ready ter start out fur town in thar buggy. An' that thar gay one--though now he seems ez sober ez that sour one--he said 't warn't no devil. 'Twar jes' a ventriloquisk from somewhar--that's jes' what that town man called it. But _I_ never said nuthin'. I kep' powerful quiet.” Brent Kayle was as vain a man as ever stood in shoe leather--even in the midst of his absorption in his disclosure he could not refrain from a pause to reflect on the signal success of his prank and laugh and plume himself.