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He closed the bank as usual at five. Lincoln had not come couldn’t come now till the nine-o’clock accommodation. For an hour after the shades were drawn he sat there in the semidarkness, silently pondering on his situation. This attitude and deep quiet were unusual to him. He heard the feet of friends and neighbors passing the door as he sat there by the smoldering coal fire, in the growing darkness. There was something impressive in his attitude.

He started up at last and tried to see what the hour was by turning the face of his watch to the dull glow from the cannon stoye’s open door.

"Suppertime," he said and threw the whole matter off, as if he had decided it or had put off the decision till another time.

As he went by the post office Vance said to Mcllvaine in a smiling way, as if it were a good joke on Sanford:

"Little short o’ cash down at the bank. "

"He’s a good fellow," Mcllvaine said.

"So’s his wife," added Vance with a chuckle.

III

That night, after supper, Sanford sat in his snug little skting room with a baby on each knee, looking as cheerful and happy as any man in the village. The children crowed and shouted as he "trotted them to Boston," or rode them on the toe of his boot. They made a noisy, merry group.

Mrs. Sanford "did her own work," and her swift feet could be heard moving to and fro out in the kitchen. It was pleasant there; the woodwork, the furniture, the stove, the curtains–all had that look of newness just growing into coziness. The coal stove was lighted and the curtains were drawn.

After the work in the kitchen was done, Mrs. Sanford came in and sat awhile by the fire with the children, looking very wifely in her dark dress and white apron, her round, smiling face glowing with love and pride–the gloating look of a mother seeing her children in the arms of her husband.

"How is Mrs. Peterson’s baby, Jim?" she said suddenly, her face sobering.

"Pretty bad, I guess. La, la, la-deedle-dee! The doctor seemed to think it was a tight squeak if it lived. Guess it’s done for–oop ‘e goes!"

She made a little leap at the youngest child and clasped it convulsively to her bosom. Her swift maternal imagination had made another’s loss very near and terrible.

"Oh, say, Nell," he broke out, on seeing her sober, "I had the confoundedest time today with old lady Bingham–"

"’Sh! Baby’s gone to sleep. "

After the children had been put to bed in the little alcove off the sitting room, Mrs. Sanford came back, to find Jim absorbed over a little book of accounts.

"What are you studying, Jim?"

Someone knocked on the door before he had time to reply.

"Come in!" he said.

‘Sh! Don’t yell so," his wife whispered.

"Telegram, Jim," said a voice in the obscurity.

"Oh! That you, Sam? Come in.

Sam, a lathy fellow with a quid in his cheek, stepped in. "How d’ ‘e do, Mis’ Sanford?"

"Set down, se’ down. "

"Can’t stop; ‘most train time. "

Sanford tore the envelope open, read the telegram rapidly, the smile fading out of his face. He read it again, word for word, then sat looking at it.

"Any answer?" asked Sam.

"All right. Good night. "

"Good night. "

After the door slammed, Sanford took the sheet from the envelope and reread it. At length he dropped into his chair. "That settles it," he said aloud.

"Settles what? What’s the news?" His wife came up and looked over his shoulder.

"Settles I’ve got to go on that nine-thirty train. "

"Be back on the morning train?"

"Yes; I guess so–I mean, of course, I’ll have to be–to open the bank. "