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Upon this moment, when it seemed as if he could endure no more, came the smooth voice of William McTurg:

"Hello, folkses!"

"Hello, Uncle Bill! Come in. "

"That’s what we came for," laughed a woman’s voice.

"Is that you, Rose?" asked Laura.

"It’s me–Rose," replied the laughing girl as she bounced into the room and greeted everybody in a breathless sort of way.

"You don’t mean little Rosy?"

"Big Rosy now," said William.

Howard looked at the handsome girl and smiled, saying in a nasal sort of tone, "Wal, wal! Rosy, how you’ve growed since I saw yeh!"

"Oh, look at all this purple and fine linen! Am I left out?"

Rose was a large girl of twenty-five or thereabouts, and was called an old maid. She radiated good nature from every line of her buxom self. Her black eyes were full of drollery, and she was on the best of terms with Howard at once. She had been a teacher, but that did not prevent her from assuming a peculiar directness of speech. Of course they talked about old friends.

"Where’s Rachel?" Howard inquired. Her smile faded away.

"Shellie married Orrin Mcllvaine. They’re way out in Dakota. Shellie’s havin’ a hard row of stumps. "

There was a little silence.

"And Tommy?"

"Gone West. Most all the boys have gone West. That’s the reason there’s so many old maids. "

"You don’t mean to say–"

"I don’t need to say–I’m an old maid. Lots of the girls are. "

"It don’t pay to marry these days. "

"Are you mar
ried?"

"Not yet. " His eyes lighted up again in a humorous way.

"Not yet! That’s good! That’s the way old maids all talk. "

"You don’t mean to tell me that no young fellow comes prowling around?"

"Oh, a young Dutchrnan or Norwegian once in a while. Nobody that counts. Fact is, we’re getting like Boston–four women to one man; and when you consider that we’re getting more particular each year, the outlook is–well, it’s dreadful!"

"It certainly is. "

"Marriage is a failure these days for most of us. We can’t live on the farm, and can’t get a living in the city, and there we are. " She laid her hand on his arm. "I declare, Howard, you’re the same boy you used to be. I ain’t a bit afraid of you, for all your success. "

"And you’re the same girl? No, I can’t say that. It seems to me you’ve grown more than I have–I don’t mean physically, I mean mentally," he explained as he saw her smile in the defensive way a fleshy girl has, alert to ward off a joke.

They were in the midst of talk, Howard telling one of his funny stories, when a wagon clattered up to the door and merry voices called loudly:

"Whoa, there, Sampson!"

"Hullo, the house!"

Rose looked at her father with a smile in her black eyes exactly like his. They went to the door.

"Hullo! What’s wanted?"

"Grant McLane live here?"

"Yup. Right here. "

A moment later there came a laughing, chatting squad of women to the door. Mrs. McLane and Laura stared at each other in amazement. Grant went outdoors.

Rose stood at the door as if she were hostess.

"Come in, Nettie. Glad to see yeh–glad to see yeh! Mrs. Mcllvaine, come right in! Take a seat. Make yerself to home, do! And Mrs. Peavey! Wal, I never! This must be a surprise party. Well, I swan! How many more o’ ye air they?"

All was confusion, merriment, handshakings as Rose introduced them in her roguish way.

"Folks, this is Mr. Howard McLane of New York. He’s an actor, but it hain’t spoiled him a bit as I can see. How, this is Nettie Mcllvaine–Wilson that was. "