to see my boy Bill. He was named for his uncle, and has lived thar a year er more, with his uncle, he has. They take quite a shine to him, 'cause he's spunky like, and long-headed, no mistake, if he is my boy. That George of theirn was never very cute at enything but circulating tin that his dad had drummed up. Lucky dog, that father of his. All he teched turned to money, and he never had no holes in his pockets nuther. Kalkerlate they're at the top of the heap in Holman and got cash enough to keep um thar. How's that?" 'Tis said the heel of Achilles was his only vulnerable point, and there is never wanting a Paris to inflict the dart. So with Annie Wilmot, usually gentle and lovely, the name of Sherman was her vulnerable point and never failed to rouse within her bosom a whirlwind of wrath. Pale and excited, she sought for self-control as she answered: "I cannot answer for a town or even a neighborhood." "What's up now that makes you so techy? Any heart trouble 'tween you and that George? Don't mind, the young whippersnapper will come all right.” "A heart trouble with George Sherman!" said Annie, while her face shone with that livid pallor seen by the elder Sherman three years before as he stood with her face to face, in her father's home. "A heart affair with George Sherman, the man I despise above all others? I hated always the miserable creature for his own degraded self, for the lack of every noble quality, the absence of every virtue. Nor is his father one whit his superior in goodness; grey-haired in dishonesty and fraud, his hands steeped in iniquity, and his garments stained with the unrepented sins of threescore years! This is William Sherman. Nor can the money of your brother, though counted by millions, command respect for either him or his son." "Well, s'posen you don't like him; guess nobody cares. You needn't show so much darnder about it. Shouldn't wonder if you'd been off to work in the Lewiston factory, and guess William Sherman won't care what such gals think about him." "Silence!" spoke Annie, quite losing her self-control. "I will listen to no further insult, even though you know no better; and may forever and a day drift down the ages ere the name of SherK man shall be again forced on my unwilling ears. I have not sought this interview, and here let it end. Leave me to myself and feelings of disgust at the thought of a character too contemptible for words.” "Might as well let her have her own way and say," muttered the Sherman brother, as he changed his seat for one more remote from the scene of his late encounter. "Hate to have a fuss, though I ain't any afraid of gitting hit; she's nothing but a gal, anyhow, and it's an awful shame and disgrace fer her to talk so sarcy to a man. But, like all the rest of the wimmin, she's got brass and tongue enough to have the last word in spite of fate." Annie, left to herself, shrank abashed from the notice her angry words had drawn towards her. Those near her were surprised, but none cared to question her, so she was allowed to sit in silence during the remainder of her ride. At Bradford she found the old yellow coach, not having been driven from its long-travelled road by modern and more rapid conveyance. It was a crazy, rattling old vehicle, dilapidated by time and service, but not, like the "one hoss chaise," fallen to utter ruin. To Annie it was fraught with a home-like atmosphere, bringing a cozy feeling of content as she seated herself on its ragged cushions and moved slowly over the road to Holman. Along the way everything was charmed with soothing familiarity; the old rocks, with their moss-patches a little larger; the board fences, enclosing wood-lot and dividing lawn, while the shrubby bushes waved in the same places they had occupied since her earliest infancy. Even the Sherman residence, seen in the distance, was like an old friend. Why should it be otherwise? Harry Wilmot had planned its conveniences and much of its surrounding beauty. Yet its doors were closed against him, while his first-born must, in silent regret, pass its threshold to a humble residence beyond its shadow. Would it always be so? A new thought cheered the heart of the weary girl, as, for one brief moment, she hoped the former possessions of her family might at some future period be redeemed from the grasp of strangers. absurd, too improbable for encouragement. Yet she knew their repossession would be undertaken by an enterprising man as mere pastime and play. The idea was too She had not time to think long, to weigh the possible against the impossibles connected with her desire for an exchange of homes ere the old yellow coach stopped before the wicket-gate and left her by the narrow foot-path whence it had taken her two years before. Forgetting all the past; its joyous and less pleasant scenes; alike thoughtless of the future, Annie knew only the present-the blessed reunion with her family and friends. They had changed in the months that had passed, but there was a reflection of more comfort and happiness, brighter hopes and higher expectations. "You, my darling," said the thoughtful mother, "are looking thin. Where are the rosy cheeks you carried away?" "Not thinner," replied Annie, "than the working girl usually returns after a long term of service. My health is unimpaired, and a short rest from hard labor will recall the runaway roses whose absence you deplore. In your joy and anxiety you seem to forget the very important item of supper." Turning towards the neatly-laid table she continued: "You cannot know how much, at the close of a weary day, I have pined, even wept, to sit with you at this evening meal. Not that Mrs. Barlow failed to provide sufficient food, but it was not this, not your little, old table, arranged for the four comprising our family." Seating themselves in humble gratitude every heart whispered amen, as the father's voice was heard in thanksgiving for the rich blessing of that eventide. Questions followed, incidents were related, till, wearied with much talking, Mr. Wilmot retired for the night. Then the mother and daughter sat alone by the smouldering, dying embers. "I cannot," said Mrs. Wilmot, "allow you to sleep without hearing the report of Eddie's manly conduct; of the faithfulness with which he at first performed the lesser, and afterwards the more important, duties in the store of Mr. Allen. "Enlarging his business last winter, instead of procuring another clerk, he gave to 'baby Ned' the post occupied by his own Fred the year before he left for college." "Does Mr. Allen think so much of the child?" asked the gratified sister. "We know our neighbor too well to think he would pretend a confidence he did not feel, nor would he advance an idle, worthless boy. He often says, 'Annie must be made to concede to the old man the wisdom his grey hairs have earned.' You thought the child too young and frail for the place; with the evidence of Eddie's two-years' trial against you, Mr. Allen thinks to draw from you a confession of ignorance in the art of training young boys. So be prepared for a banter when you meet.” "I hope my brother's success is beyond a doubt, but I prefer waiting awhile before admitting my fault, or saying that Eddie's entrance into Mr. Allen's store at the age of twelve years was a judicious step." "Neither you nor Mr. Allen will yield a point that can be sustained; there may be a chance to test your argumentative powers." That night Annie slept in her own room, satisfied with its plain, cheap furniture, and content with the narrow cot on which she lay: Separation had taught her the value of friends; that above all riches is the priceless gift of a mother's love. CHAPTER XII. There is a pleasing dread in the fashion of all mysteries, Two weeks of Annie's home visit slipped away before she found a convenient time for spending a day with Mrs. Allen at her own home. Fred was there, slightly indisposed, yet not sufficiently ill to reduce the usual number of stories, collected by a life from home, especially the first year in college. All day she talked and listened, till the fading light and deepening shadows reminded her that she was to walk home with her brother after his usual hour for closing business for the night. The friends parted with pleasant good-nights, Annie going to Mr. Allen's store, which she reached in season to notice Eddie's unusual silence, and a troubled expression, as he looked carefully to the closing of shutters and bolting of doors. "What annoys you?" asked the sister, as they gained the street. "I do not know that I can exactly tell. You know that father and Mr. Allen drove to Bradford this afternoon. I have been alone, yet there has been a mysterious leak in the money drawer. Fifty cents have 'broken jail,' or in some way escaped from the drawer, and what is yet more perplexing, elude thus far the efforts of a rigorous search." "Only fifty cents?" said the sister, relieved by the smallness |