“What goes on after dark I ain’t responsible for,” commented old Mrs. Bascom, “but no new wash-boiler has gone into Rube Hobson’s door in the daytime for many a year, and I’ll be bound it means somethin’. There goes a broom, too. Much sweepin’ he’ll get out o’ Eunice; it’s a slick ‘n’ a promise with her!”

“When did you begin to suspicion this, Diademy?” asked Almira Berry. “I’ve got as much faculty as the next one, but anybody that lives on the river road has just got to give up knowin’ anything. You can’t keep runnin’ to the store every day, and if you could you don’t find out much nowadays. Bill Peters don’t take no more interest in his neighbors than a cow does in election.”

“I can’t get mother Bascom to see it as I do,” said Diadema, “but for one thing she’s ben carryin’ home bundles ‘bout every other night for a month, though she’s ben too smart to buy anythin’ here at this store. She had Packard’s horse to go to Saco last week. When she got home, jest at dusk, she drove int’ the barn, ‘n’ bimeby Pitt Packard come to git his horse,—‘t was her own buggy she went with. She looked over here when she went int’ the house, ‘n’ she ketched my eye, though ‘t was half a mile away, so she never took a thing in with her, but soon as’t was dark she made three trips out to the barn with a lantern, ‘n’ any fool could tell ‘t her arms was full o’ pa’cels by the way she carried the lantern. The Hobsons and the Emerys have married one another more ‘n once, as fur as that goes. I declare if I was goin’ to get married I should want to be relation to somebody besides my own folks.”

“The reason I can hardly credit it,” said Hannah Sophia, “is because Eunice never had a beau in her life, that I can remember of. Cyse Higgins set up with her for a spell, but it never amounted to nothin’. It seems queer, too, for she was always so fond o’ seein’ men folks round that when Pitt Packard was shinglin’ her barn she used to go out nights ‘n’ rip some o’ the shingles off, so ‘t he’d hev more days’ work on it.”

“I always said ‘t was she that begun on Rube Hobson, not him on her,” remarked the Widow Buzzell. “Their land joinin’ made courtin’ come dretful handy. His critters used to git in her field ‘bout every other day (I always suspicioned she broke the fence down herself), and then she’d hev to go over and git him to drive ‘em out. She’s wed his onion bed for him two summers, as I happen to know, for I’ve been ou’ doors more ‘n common this summer, tryin’ to fetch my constitution up. Diademy, don’t you want to look out the back way ‘n’ see if Rube’s come home yet?”

“He ain’t,” said old Mrs. Bascom, “so you needn’t look; can’t you see the curtains is all down? He’s gone up to the Mills, ‘n’ it’s my opinion he’s gone to speak to the minister.”

“He hed somethin’ in the back o’ the wagon covered up with an old linen lap robe; ‘t ain’t at all likely he ‘d ‘a’ hed that if he’d ben goin’ to the minister’s,” objected Mrs. Jot.

“Anybody’d think you was born yesterday, to hear you talk, Diademy,” retorted her mother-in-law. “When you ‘ve set in one spot’s long’s I hev, p’raps you’ll hev the use o’ your faculties! Men folks has more ‘n one way o’ gettin’ married, ‘specially when they ‘re ashamed of it. … Well, I vow, there’s the little Hobson girls comin’ out o’ the door this minute, ‘n’ they ‘re all dressed up, and Mote don’t seem to be with ‘em.”

Every woman in the room rose to her feet, and Diadema removed her murderous eye from a fly which she had been endeavoring to locate for some moments.

“I guess they ‘re goin’ up to the church to meet their father ‘n’ Eunice, poor little things,” ventured the Widow Buzzell.

“P’raps they be,” said old Mrs. Bascom sarcastically; “p’raps they be goin’ to church, takin’ a three-quart tin pail ‘n’ a brown paper bundle along with ‘em. … They ‘re comin’ over the bridge, just as I s’posed. … Now, if they come past this house, you head ‘em off, Almiry, ‘n’ see if you can git some satisfaction out of ‘em. … They ain’t hardly old enough to hold their tongues.”

An exciting interview soon took place in the middle of the road, and Almira reentered the room with the expression of one who had penetrated the inscrutable and solved the riddle of the Sphinx. She had been vouch-safed one of those gleams of light in darkness which almost dazzle the beholder.

“That’s about the confirmingest thing I’ve heern yet!” she ejaculated, as she took off her shaker bonnet. “They say they’re goin’ up to their aunt Hitty’s to stay two days. They’re dressed in their best, clean to the skin, for I looked; ‘n’ it’s their night gownds they’ve got in the bundle. They say little Mote has gone to Union to stop all night with his uncle Abijah, ‘n’ that leaves Rube all alone, for the smith girl that does his chores is home sick with the hives. And what do you s’pose is in the pail? Fruit cake,—that’s what ‘t is, no more ‘n’ no less! I knowed that Smith girl didn’t bake it, ‘n’ so I asked ‘em, ‘n’ they said Miss Emery give it to ‘em. There was two little round try-cakes, baked in muffin-rings. Eunice hed took some o’ the batter out of a big loaf ‘n’ baked it to se how it was goin’ to turn out. That means wedding-cake, or I’m mistaken!”

“There ain’t no gittin’ round that,” agreed the assembled company, “now is there, Mis’ Bascom?”

Old Mrs. Bascom wet her finger, smoothed the parting of her false front, and looked inscrutable.

“I don’t see why you’re so secret,” objected Diadema.

“I’ve got my opinions, and I’ve had ‘em some time,” observed the good lady. “I don’t know ‘s I’m bound to tell ‘em and have ‘em held up to ridicule. Let the veal hang, I say. If any one of us is right, we’ll all know to-morrow.”

“Well, all any of us has got to judge from is appearances,” said Diadema, “and how you can twist ‘em one way, and us another, stumps me!”

“Perhaps I see more appearances than you do,” retorted her mother-in-law. “Some folks mistakes all they see for all there is. I was reading a detective story last week. It seems there was an awful murder in Schenectady, and a mother and her two children was found dead in one bed, with bullet holes in their heads. The husband was away on business, and there wasn’t any near neighbors to hear her screech. Well, the detectives come from far and from near, and begun to work up the case. One of ‘em thought ‘t was the husband,—though he set such store by his wife he went ravin’ crazy when he heard she was dead,—one of ‘em laid it on the children,—though they was both under six years old; and one decided it was suicide,—though the woman was a church member and didn’t know how to fire a gun off, besides. And then there come along a detective younger and smarter than all the rest, and says he, ‘If all you bats have seen everything you can see, I guess I’ll take a look around,’ says he. Sure enough, there was a rug with ‘Welcome’ on it layin’ in front of the washstand, and when he turned it up he found an elegant diamond stud with a man’s full name and address on the gold part. He took a train and went right to the man’s house. He was so taken by surprise (he hadn’t missed the stud, for he had a full set of ‘em) that he owned right up and confessed the murder.”

“I don’t see as that’s got anything to do with this case,” said Diadema.

“It’s got this much to do with it,” replied old Mrs. Bascom, “that perhaps you’ve looked all round the room and seen everything you had eyes to see, and perhaps I’ve had wit enough to turn up the rug in front o’ the washstand.”

“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.”

“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.