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“Just because ‘t was onlikely. A man’s a great sight likelier to do an onlikely thing than he is a likely one, when it comes to marryin’. In the first place, Rube sent his children to school up to the Mills ‘stid of to the brick schoolhouse, though he had to pay a little something to get ’em taken in to another deestrick. They used to come down at night with their hands full o’ ‘ward o’ merit cards. Do you s’pose I thought they got ’em for good behavior, or for knowin’ their lessons? Then aunt Hitty told me some question or other Rube had asked examination day. Since when has Rube Hobson ‘tended examinations, thinks I. And when I see the girl, a red-and-white paper doll that wouldn’t know whether to move the churn-dasher up ‘n’ down or round ‘n’ round, I made up my mind that bein’ a man he’d take her for certain, and not his next-door neighbor of a sensible age and a house ‘n’ farm ‘n’ cow ‘n’ buggy!”

“Sure enough,” agreed Hannah Sophia, “though that don’t account for Eunice’s queer actions, ‘n’ the pa’cels ‘n’ the fruit cake.”

“When I make out a case,” observed Mrs. Bascom modestly, “I ain’t one to leave weak spots in it. If I guess at all, I go all over the ground ‘n’ stop when I git through. Now, sisters or no sisters, Maryabby Emery ain’t spoke to Eunice sence she moved to Salem. But if Eunice has ben bringin’ pa’cels home, Maryabby must ‘a’ paid for what was in ’em; and if she’s ben bakin’ fruit cake this hot day, why Maryabby used to be so font o’ fruit cake her folks were afraid she’d have fits ‘n’ die. I shall be watchin’ here as usual to-morrow morning’, ‘n’ if Maryabby don’t drive int’ Eunice’s yard before noon I won’t brag any more for a year to come.”

Hannah Sophia gazed at old Mrs. Bascom with unstinted admiration. “You do beat all,” she said; “and I wish I could stay all night ‘n’ see how it turns out, but Almiry is just comin’ over the bridge, ‘n’ I must start ‘n’ meet her. Good-by. I’m glad to see you so smart; you always look slim, but I guess you’ll tough it out’s long ‘s the rest of us. I see your log was all right, last time I was down side o’ the river.”

“They say it ‘s jest goin’ to break in two in the middle, and fall into the river,” cheerfully responded Lucinda. “They say it’s just hanging’ on by a thread. Well, that’s what they ‘ve ben sayin’ about me these ten years, ‘n’ here I be still hanging! It don’t make no odds, I guess, whether it’s a thread or a rope you ‘re hangin’ by, so long as you hang.”

* * *

The next morning, little Mote Hobson, who had stayed all night with his uncle in Union, was walking home by the side of the river. He strolled along, the happy, tousle-headed, barefooted youngster, eyes one moment on the trees in the hope of squirrels and birds’-nests, the next on the ground in search of the first blueberries. As he stooped to pick up a bit of shining quartz to add to the collection in his ragged trousers’ pockets he glanced across the river, and at that very instant Lucinda’s log broke gently in twain, rolled down the bank, crumbling as it went, and, dropping in like a tired child, was carried peacefully along on the river’s breast.

Mote walked more quickly after that. It was quite a feather in his cap to see, with his own eyes, the old landmark slip from its accustomed place and float down the stream. The other boys would miss it and say, “It’s gone!” He would say, “I saw it go!”

Grandpa Bascom was standing at the top of the hill. His white locks were uncovered, and he was in his shirt-sleeves. Baby Jot, as usual, held fast by his shaking hand, for they loved each other, these two. The cruel stroke of the sun that had blurred the old man’s brain had spared a blessed something in him that won the healing love of children.

“How d’ ye, Mote?” he piped in his feeble voice. “They say Lucindy’s dead. . . . Jot says she is, ‘n’ Diademy says she is, ‘n’ I guess she is. . . . It ‘s a dretful thick year for fol’age; . . . some o’ the maples looks like balls in the air.”

Mote looked in at the window. The neighbors were hurrying to and fro. Diadema sat with her calico apron up to her face, sobbing; and for the first morning in thirty years, old Mrs. Bascom’s high-backed rocker was empty, and there was no one sitting in the village watch-tower.