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“Whoever he marries now, Mis’ Bascom’ll have to say ‘t was the one she meant,” laughed the Widow Buzzell.

“I never was caught cheatin’ yet, and if I live till Saturday I shall be seventy-one years old,” said the old lady with some heat. “Hand me Jot’s lead pencil, Diademy, and that old envelope on the winder sill. I’ll write the name I think of, and shut it up in the old Bible. My hand’s so stiff to-day I can’t hardly move it, but I guess I can make it plain enough to satisfy you.”

“That’s fair ‘n’ square,” said Hannah Sophia, “and for my pat I hope it ain’t Eunice, for I like her too well. What they’re goin’ to live on is more ‘n I can see. Add nothin’ to nothin’ ‘n’ you git nothin’,–that’s arethmetic! He ain’t hed a cent o’ ready money sence he failed up four years ago, ‘thout it was that hundred dollars that fell to him from his wife’s aunt. Eunice’ll hev her hands full this winter, I guess, with them three hearty children ‘n’ him all wheezed up with phthisic from October to April! . . . Who’s that coming’ down Tory Hill? It’s Rube’s horse ‘n’ Rube’s wagon, but it don’t look like Rube.”

“Yes, it’s Rube; but he’s got a new Panama hat, ‘n’ he ‘s hed his linen duster washed,” said old Mrs. Bascom. . . . “Now, do you mean to tell me that that woman with a stuck-up hat on is Eunice Emery? It ain’t, ‘n’ that green parasol don’t belong to this village. He’s drivin’ her into his yard! . . . Just as I s’posed, it’s that little, smirkin’ worthless school-teacher up to the Mills.–Don’t break my neck, Diademy; can’t you see out the other winder?–Yes, he’s helpin’ her out, ‘n’ showin’ her in. He can’t ‘a’ ben married more’n ten minutes, for he’s goin’ clear up the steps to open the door for her!”

“Wait ‘n’ see if he takes his horse out,” said Hannah Sophia. “Mebbe he’ll drive her back in a few minutes. . . . No, he’s onhitched! . . . There, he’s hangin’ up the head-stall!”

“I’ve ben up in the attic chamber,” called the Widow Buzzell, as she descended the stairs; “she’s pulled up the curtains, and took off her hat right in front o’ the winder, ‘s bold as a brass kettle! She’s come to stay! Ain’t that Rube Hobson all over,–to bring another woman int’ this village ‘stid o’ weedin’ one of ’em out as he’d oughter. He ain’t got any more public sperit than a–hedgehog, ‘n’ never had!”

Almira drew on her mitts excitedly, tied on her shaker, and started for the door.

“I’m goin’ over to Eunice’s,” she said, “and I’m goin’ to take my bottle of camphire. I shouldn’t wonder a mite if I found her in a dead faint on the kitchen floor. Nobody need tell me she wa’n’t buildin’ hopes.”

“I’ll go with you,” said the Widow Buzzell. “I’d like to see with my own eyes how she takes it, ‘n’ it’ll be too late to tell if I wait till after supper. If she’d ben more open with me ‘n’ ever asked for my advice, I could ‘a’ told her it wa’n’t the first time Rube Hobson has played that trick.”

“I’d come too if ‘t wa’n’t milkin’ but Jot ain’t home from the Centre, and I’ve got to do his chores; come in as you go along back, will you?” asked Diadema.

Hannah Sophia remained behind, promising to meet them at the post-office and hear the news. As the two women walked down the hill she drew the old envelope from the Bible and read the wavering words scrawled upon it in old Mrs. Bascom’s rheumatic and uncertain hand,–

the milikins Mills Teecher.

“Well Lucindy, you do make good use o’ your winder,” she exclaimed, “but how you pitched on anything so onlikely as her is more’n I can see.”