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“There’s Ann Maria Hart, my oldest sister’s daughter. I kind of call it home with her by spells and when the travelin’ ‘s bad.”

“Good King Agrippy! if that’s the best you can do, I feel for you,” exclaimed the energetic adviser. “She’s a harmless creatur’ and seems to keep ploddin, but slack ain’t no description, an’ runs on talkin’ about nothin’ till it strikes right in an’ numbs ye. She’s pressed for house room, too. Hart ought to put on an addition long ago, but he’s too stingy to live. Folks was tellin’ me that somebody observed to him how he’d got a real good, stiddy man to work with him this summer. ‘He’s called a very pious man, too, great hand in meetin’s, Mr. Hart,’ says they; an’ says he, ‘I’d have you rec’lect he’s a-prayin’ out o’ my time!’ Said it hasty, too, as if he meant it.”

“Well, I can put up with Hart; he’s near, but he uses me well, an’ I try to do the same by him. I don’t bange on ’em; I pay my way, an’ I feel as if everything was temp’rary. I did plan to go way over North Dexter way, where I’ve never be’n, an’ see if there wa’n’t somebody, but the weather ain’t be’n settled as I could wish. I’m always expectin’ to find her, I be so,”–at which I observed Sister Pinkham’s frame shake.

I felt a slight reproach of conscience at listening so intently to these entirely private affairs, and at this point reluctantly left my place and walked along the platform, to remind Sister Pinkham and confiding Mr. Teaby of my neighborhood. They gave no sign that there was any objection to the presence of a stranger, and so I came back gladly to the baggage truck, and we all kept silence for a little while. A fine flavor of extracts was wafted from the valise to where I sat. I pictured to myself the solitary and hopeful wanderings of Mr. Teaby. There was an air about him of some distinction; he might have been a decayed member of the medical profession. I observed that his hands were unhardened by any sort of rural work, and he sat there a meek and appealing figure, with his antique hat and linen duster, beside the well-wadded round shoulders of friendly Sister Pinkham. The expression of their backs was most interesting.

“You might express it that I’ve got quite a number o’ good homes; I’ve got me sorted out a few regular places where I mostly stop,” Mr. Teaby explained presently. “I like to visit with the old folks an’ speak o’ the past together; an’ the boys an’ gals, they always have some kind o’ fun goin’ on when I git along. They always have to git me out to the barn an’ tell me, if they’re a-courtin’, and I fetch an’ carry for ’em in that case, an’ help out all I can. I’ve made peace when they got into some o’ their misunderstanding, an’ them times they set a good deal by Uncle Teaby; but they ain’t all got along as well as they expected, and that’s be’n one thing that’s made me desirous not to git fooled myself. But I do’ know as folks would be reconciled to my settlin’ down in one place. I’ve gathered a good many extry receipts for things, an’ folks all calls me somethin’ of a doctor; you know my grand’ther was one, on my mother’s side.”

“Well, you’ve had my counsel for what ‘t is wuth,” said the woman, not unkindly. “Trouble is, you want better bread than’s made o’ wheat.”

“I’m ‘most ashamed to ask ye again if ‘t would be any use to lay the matter before Hannah Jane Pinkham?” This was spoken lower, but I could hear the gentle suggestion.

“I’m obleeged to you ” said the lady of Mr. Teaby’s choice, “but I ain’t the right one. Don’t you go to settin’ your mind on me: ‘t ain’t wuth while. I’m older than you be, an’ apt to break down with my rheumatic complaints. You don’t want nobody on your hands. I’d git a younger woman, I would so.”