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“Well” she remarked weakly, “I dunno’s it does any hurt, so long as they can tell what they mean by it.”

Nicholas threw her a pitying glance. He scorned to waste eternal truth on one so dull.

“Well,” she went on, in desperation, “that ain’t all, neither. I might as well say the whole, an’ done with it. He wants ’em to set up the clock on the meetin’-house; an’ seeing the tower mightn’t be firm enough, he’ll build it up higher, an’ give ’em a new bell.”

Now, indeed, Nicholas Oldfield was in the case of Shylock, when he learned his daughter’s limit of larceny. “The curse never fell upon our nation till now,” so he might have quoted. “I never felt it till now.”

He rose from his chair.

“In the name of God Almighty,” he asked solemnly, “what do they want of a new bell?”

Young Nick’s Hattie gave an involuntary cry.

“O father!” she entreated, “don’t say such words. I never see you take on so. What under the sun has got into you?”

Nicholas made no reply. Slowly and methodically he was putting the dishes into the wooden sink. When he touched Mary’s pink mug, his fingers trembled a little; but he did not look at her. He knew she understood. Young Nick’s Hattie rolled her hands nervously in her apron, and then unrolled them, and smoothed the apron down. She gathered herself desperately.

“Well, father,” she said, “I’ve got another arrant. I said I’d do it, an’ I will; but I dunno how you’ll take it.”

“O mother!” cried Mary, “don’t!”

“What is it?” asked Nicholas, folding the tablecloth in careful creases. “Say your say and git it over.”

Hattie rocked faster and faster. Even in the stress of the moment Nicholas remembered that the old chair was well made, and true to its equilibrium.

“Well,” said she, “Luella an’ Freeman Henry come over here this very day, an’ Freeman Henry’s possessed you should sell him the Flat-Iron Lot.”

“Wants the Flat-Iron Lot, does he?” inquired Nicholas grimly. “What’s he made up his mind to do with it?”

“He wants to build,” answered Hattie, momentarily encouraged. “He says he’ll be glad to ride over to work, every mornin’ of his life, if he can only feel ‘t he’s settled in Tiverton for good. An’ there’s that lot on high ground, right near the meetin’-house, as sightly a place as ever was, an’ no good to you,–there ain’t half a load o’ hay cut there in a season,–an’ he’d pay the full vally”–

“Stop!” called Nicholas; and though his tone was conversational, Hattie paused, open-mouthed, in full swing. He turned and faced her. “Hattie,” said he, “did you know that the fust settlers of this town had anything to do with that lot o’ land?”

“No, I didn’t know it,” answered Hattie blankly.

“I guess you didn’t,” concurred Nicholas. He had gone back to his old gentleness of voice. “An’ ‘t wouldn’t ha’ meant nothin’ to ye, if ye had known it. Now, you harken to me! It’s my last word. That Flat-Iron Lot stays under this name so long as I’m above ground. When I’m gone, you can do as ye like. Now, I don’t want to hurry ye, but I’m goin’ down to vote.”

Hattie rose, abashed and nearly terrified. “Well!” said she vacantly. “Well!” Nicholas had taken the broom, under pretext of brushing up the crumbs, and he seemed literally to be sweeping her away. It was a wind of destiny; and scudding softly and heavily before it, she disappeared in the gathering dusk.

“Mary!” she called from the gate, “Mary! Guess you better come along with me.”

Mary did not hear. She was standing by Nicholas, holding the edge of his sleeve. The unaccustomed action was significant; it bespoke a passionate loyalty. Her blue eyes were on fire, and two hot tears stood in them, unstanched. “O gran’ther!” she cried, “don’t you let ’em have it. I wish I was father. I’d see!”