CHAPTER I.

Susan Warner (1819-1885), Queechy (1852), Tauchnitz edition

1854

Produced by Daniel FROMONT

COLLECTION

OF

BRITISH AUTHORS

TAUCHNITZ EDITION.

VOL. 311

QUEECHY. BY ELIZABETH WETHERELL .

IN TWO VOLUMES.

VOL. I.

TAUCHNITZ EDITION

by the same author,

THE WIDE WIDE WORLD 1 vol.

THE HILLS OF THE SHATEMUC 2 vols.

SAY AND SEAL 2 vols.

THE OLD HELMET 2 vols.

QUEECHY.

BY

ELIZABETH WETHERELL

AUTHOR OF "THE WIDE, WIDE WORLD."

IN TWO VOLUMES.

_AUTHOR'S EDITION_.

IN TWO VOLUMES

VOL. I

LEIPZIG

BERNHARD TAUCHNITZ

1854

"I hope I may speak of woman without offence to the ladies."

THE GUARDIAN.

CONTENTS

OF VOLUME I.

Chapter I. Curtain rises at Queechy

II. Things loom out dimly through the smoke

III. You amuse me and I'll amuse you

IV. Aunt Miriam

V. As to whether a flower can grow in the woods

VI. Queechy at dinner

VII. The curtain falls upon one scene

VIII. The fairy leaves the house

IX. How Mr. Carleton happened to be not at home

X. The fairy and the Englishman

XI. A little candle

XII. Spars below

XIII. The fairy peeps into an English house, but does not stay there

XIV. Two Bibles in Paris

XV. Very literary

XVI Dissolving view, ending with a saw-mill in the distance

XVII. Rain and water-cresses for breakfast

XVIII. Mr. Rossitur's wits sharpened upon a ploughshare

XIX. Fleda goes after help and finds Dr. Quackenboss

XX. Society in Queechy

XXI. "The sweetness of a man's friend by hearty counsel"

XXII. Wherein a great many people pay their respects, in form and

substance

XXIII. The Captain out-generalled by the fairy

XXIV. A breath of the world at Queechy

XXV. "As good a boy as you need to have"

XXVI. Pine knots

XXVII. Sweet — in its consequences

QUEECHY.

VOL. I

CHAPTER I.

A single cloud on a sunny day,

When all the rest of heaven is clear,

A frown upon the atmosphere,

That hath no business to appear,

When skies are blue and earth is gay.

BYRON.

"Come, dear grandpa! — the old mare and the wagon are at the

gate — all ready."

"Well, dear! — responded a cheerful hearty voice, "they must

wait a bit; I haven't got my hat yet."

"O, I'll get that."

And the little speaker, a girl of some ten or eleven years

old, dashed past the old gentleman, and running along the

narrow passage which led to his room soon returned with the

hat in her hand.

"Yes, dear, — but that ain't all. I must put on my great-coat

— and I must look and see if I can find any money —"

"O yes — for the post-office. It's a beautiful day, grandpa.

Cynthy! — wont you come and help grandpa on with his great-

coat? — And I'll go out and keep watch of the old mare till

you're ready."

A needless caution. For the old mare, though spirited enough

for her years, had seen some fourteen or fifteen of them, and

was in no sort of danger of running away. She stood in what

was called the back meadow, just without the little paling

fence that enclosed a small courtyard round the house. Around

this courtyard rich pasture-fields lay on every side, the high

road cutting through them not more than a hundred or two feet

from the house.

The little girl planted herself on the outside of the paling,

and setting her back to it, eyed the old mare with great

contentment; for besides other grounds for security as to her

quiet behaviour, one of the men employed about the farm, who

had harnessed the equipage, was at the moment busied in

putting some clean straw in the bottom of the vehicle.

"Watkins," said the child presently to this person, "here is a

strap that is just ready to come unbuckled."

"What do you know about straps and buckles?" said the man

rather grumly. But he came round, however, to see what she

meant; and while he drew the one and fastened the other, took

special good care not to let Fleda know that her watchful eyes

had probably saved the whole riding party from ruin; as the

loosing of the strap would of necessity have brought on a

trial of the old mare's nerves, which not all her philosophy

could have been expected to meet. Fleda was satisfied to see

the buckle made fast, and that Watkins, roused by her hint, or

by the cause of it, afterwards took a somewhat careful look

over the whole establishment. In high glee then she climbed to

her seat in the little wagon, and her grandfather coming out

coated and hatted, with some difficulty mounted to his place

beside her.

"I think Watkins might have taken the trouble to wash the

wagon, without hurting himself," said Fleda; "it is all

speckled with mud since last time."

"Ha'n't he washed it!" said the old gentleman in a tone of

displeasure. "Watkins!""

"Well."

"Why didn't you wash the wagon as I told you?"

"I did."

"It's all over slosh."

"That's Mr. Didenhover's work — he had it out day 'fore

yesterday; and if you want it cleaned, Mr. Ringgan, you must

speak to him about it. Mr. Didenhover may file his own doings;

it's more than I'm a going to."

The old gentleman made no answer, except to acquaint the mare

with the fact of his being in readiness to set out. A shade of

annoyance and displeasure for a moment was upon his face; but

the gate opening from the meadow upon the high road had hardly

swung back upon its hinges after letting them out, when he

recovered the calm sweetness of demeanour that was habitual

with him, and seemed as well as his little granddaughter to

have given care the go-by for the time. Fleda had before this

found out another fault in the harness, or rather in Mr.

Didenhover, which like a wise little child she kept to

herself. A broken place which her grandfather had ordered to

be properly mended, was still tied up with the piece of rope

which had offended her eyes the last time they had driven out.

But she said not a word of it, because "it would only worry

grandpa for nothing;" and forgetting it almost immediately,

she moved on with him in a state of joyous happiness that no

mud-stained wagon nor untidy rope-bound harness could stir for

an instant. Her spirit was like a clear still-running stream,

which quietly and surely deposits every defiling and obscuring

admixture it may receive from its contact with the grosser

elements around; the stream might for a moment be clouded; but

a little while, and it would run as clear as ever. Neither

Fleda nor her grandfather cared a jot for the want of

elegancies which one despised, and the other, if she had ever

known, had well nigh forgotten. What mattered it to her that

the little old green wagon was rusty and worn, or that years

and service had robbed the old mare of all the jauntiness she

had ever possessed, so long as the sun shone and the birds

sang? And Mr. Ringgan, in any imaginary comparison, might be

pardoned for thinking that he was the proud man, and that his

poor little equipage carried such a treasure as many a coach

and four went without.

"Where are we going first, grandpa? to the post-office?"

"Just there!"

"How pleasant it is to go there always, isn't it, grandpa? You

have the paper to get, and I — I don't very often get a

letter, but I have always the _hope_ of getting one; and that's

something. May be I'll have one to-day, grandpa?"

"We'll see. It's time those cousins of yours wrote to you."

"O _they_ don't write to me — it's only Aunt Lucy; I never had a

letter from a single one of them, except once from little

Hugh, — don't you remember, grandpa? I should think he must be

a very nice little boy, shouldn't you?"

"Little boy? why I guess he is about as big as you are, Fleda

— he is eleven years old, ain't he?"

"Yes, but I am past eleven, you know, grandpa, and I am a

little girl."

This reasoning being unanswerable, Mr. Ringgan only bade the

old mare trot on.

It was a pleasant day in autumn. Fleda thought it particularly

pleasant for riding, for the sun was veiled with thin, hazy

clouds. The air was mild and still, and the woods, like brave

men, putting the best face upon falling fortunes. Some trees

were already dropping their leaves; the greater part standing

in all the varied splendour which the late frosts had given

them. The road, an excellent one, sloped gently up and down

across a wide arable country, in a state of high cultivation,

and now showing all the rich variety of autumn. The reddish

buckwheat patches, and fine wood-tints of the fields where

other grain had been; the bright green of young rye or winter

wheat, then soberer-coloured pasture or meadow lands, and ever

and anon a tuft of gay woods crowning a rising ground, or a

knot of the everlasting pines looking sedately and steadfastly

upon the fleeting glories of the world around them; these were

mingled and interchanged, and succeeded each other in ever-

varying fresh combinations. With its high picturesque beauty,

the whole scene had a look of thrift, and plenty, and promise,

which made it eminently cheerful. So Mr. Ringgan and his

little granddaughter both felt it to be. For some distance,

the grounds on either hand the road were part of the old

gentleman's farm; and many a remark was exchanged between him

and Fleda, as to the excellence or hopefulness of this or that

crop or piece of soil; Fleda entering into all his enthusiasm,

and reasoning of clover leys and cockle, and the proper

harvesting of Indian corn, and other like matters, with no

lack of interest or intelligence.

"O grandpa," she exclaimed, suddenly, "wont you stop a minute

and let me get out. I want to get some of that beautiful

bittersweet."

"What do you want that for?" said he. "You can't get out very

well."

"O yes, I can — please, grandpa! I want some of it very much —

just one minute!'

He stopped, and Fleda got out and went to the roadside, where

a bittersweet vine had climbed into a young pine tree, and

hung it, as it were, with red coral. But her one minute was at

least four before she had succeeded in breaking off as much as

she could carry of the splendid creeper; for not until then

could Fleda persuade herself to leave it. She came back, and

worked her way up into the wagon with one hand full as it

could hold of her brilliant trophies.

"Now, what good 'll that do you?" inquired Mr. Ringgan, good-

humouredly, as he lent Fleda what help he could to her seat.

"Why, grandpa, I want it to put with cedar and pine in a jar

at home; it will keep for ever so long, and look beautiful.

Isn't that handsome? — only it was a pity to break it."

"Why, yes, it's handsome enough," said Mr. Ringgan, "but

you've got something just by the front door there, at home,

that would do just as well — what do you call it — that

flaming thing there?"

"What, my burning bush? O grandpa! I wouldn't cut that for

anything in the world! It's the only pretty thing about the

house; and, besides," said Fleda, looking up with a softened

mien, "you said that it was planted by my mother. O grandpa! I

wouldn't cut that for anything."

Mr. Ringgan laughed a pleased laugh. "Well, dear!" said he,

"it shall grow till it's as big as the house, if it will."

"It wont do that," said Fleda. "But I am very glad I have got

this bittersweet; this is just what I wanted. Now, if I can

only find some holly —"

"We'll come across some, I guess, by and by," said Mr.

Ringgan; and Fleda settled herself again to enjoy the trees,

the fields, the roads, and all the small handiwork of nature,

for which her eyes had a curious intelligence. But this was

not fated to be a ride of unbroken pleasure.

"Why, what are those bars down for?" she said, as they came up

with a field of winter grain. "Somebody's been in here with a

wagon. O grandpa! Mr. Didenhover has let the Shakers have my

butternuts! — the butternuts that you told him they mustn't

have."

The old gentleman drew up his horse. "So he has!" said he.

Their eyes were upon the far end of the deep lot, where, at

the edge of one of the pieces of woodland spoken of, a

picturesque group of men and boys, in frocks and broad-brimmed

white hats, were busied in filling their wagon under a clump

of the now thin and yellow-leaved butternut trees.

"The scoundrel!" said Mr. Ringgan, under his breath.

"Would it be any use, grandpa, for me to jump down and run and

tell them you don't want them to take the butternuts? — I

shall have so few".

"No, dear — no," said her grandfather; "they have got ’em

about all by this time; the mischief's done. Didenhover meant

to let 'em have 'em unknown to me, and pocket the pay himself

Get up!"

Fleda drew a long breath, and gave a hard look at the distant

wagon, where her butternuts were going in by handfuls. She

said no more.

It was but a few fields further on, that the old gentleman

came to a sudden stop again.

"Ain't there some of my sheep over yonder there, Fleda — along

with Squire Thornton's?"

"I don't know, grandpa," said Fleda; "I can't see — yes, I do

see — yes, they are, grandpa; I see the mark."

"I thought so!" said Mr. Ringgan, bitterly; "I told

Didenhover, only three days ago, that if he didn't make up

that fence the sheep would be out, or Squire Thornton's would

be in; — only three days ago! Ah, well!" said he, shaking the

reins to make the mare move on again, — "it's all of a piece.

Everything goes — I can't help it."

"Why do you keep him, grandpa, if he don't behave right?"

Fleda ventured to ask, gently.

" 'Cause I can't get rid of him, dear," Mr. Ringgan answered,

rather shortly.

And till they got to the post-office, he seemed in a

disagreeable kind of muse, which Fleda did not choose to break

in upon. So the mile and a half was driven in sober silence.

"Shall I get out and go in, grandpa?" said Fleda, when he drew

up before the house.

"No, deary," said he, in his usual kind tone; "you sit still.

Holloa, there! — Good-day, Mr. Sampion — have you got anything

for me?"

The man disappeared and came out again.

"There's your paper, grandpa," said Fleda.

"Ay, and something else," said Mr. Ringgan: "I declare! —

'Miss Fleda Ringgan — care of E. Ringgan, Esq.' —There, dear,

there it is."

"Paris!" exclaimed Fleda, as she clasped the letter and both

her hands together. The butternuts and Mr. Didenhover were

forgotten at last. The letter could not be read in the jolting

of the wagon, but, as Fleda said, it was all the pleasanter,

for she had the expectation of it the whole way home.

"Where are we going now, grandpa?"

"To Queechy Run."

"That will give us a nice long ride. I am very glad. This has

been a good day. With my letter and my bittersweet I have got

enough, haven't I, grandpa?"

Queechy Run was a little village, a very little village, about

half a mile from Mr. Ringgan's house. It boasted, however, a

decent brick church of some size, a school-house, a lawyer's

office, a grocery store, a dozen or two of dwelling-houses,

and a post-office; though for some reason or other Mr. Ringgan

always chose to have his letters come through the

Sattlersville post-office, a mile and a half further off At

the door of the lawyer's office Mr. Ringgan again stopped, and

again shouted "Holloa!" —

"Good-day, Sir. Is Mr. Jolly within?"

"He is, Sir."

"Will you ask him to be so good as to step here a moment? I

cannot very well get out."

Mr. Jolly was a comfortable-looking little man, smooth and

sleek, pleasant and plausible, reasonable honest, too, as the

world goes; a nice man to have to do with; the world went so

easy with his affairs that you were sure he would make no

unnecessary rubs in your own. He came now fresh and brisk to

the side of the wagon, with that uncommon hilarity which

people sometimes assume when they have a disagreeable matter

on hand that must be spoken of.

"Good-morning, Sir! Fine day, Mr. Jolly."

"Beautiful day, Sir! Splendid season! How do you do, Mr.

Ringgan?"

"Why, Sir, I never was better in my life, barring this

lameness, that disables me very much. I can't go about and see

to things any more as I used to. However — we must expect

evils at my time of life. I don't complain. I have a great

deal to be thankful for."

"Yes, Sir, — we have a great deal to be thankful for," said

Mr. Jolly, rather abstractedly, and patting the old mare with

kind attention.

"Have you seen that fellow, McGowan?" said Mr. Ringgan,

abruptly, and in a lower tone.

"I have seen him," said Mr. Jolly, coming back from the old

mare to business.

"He's a hard customer, I guess, aint he?"

"He's as ugly a cur as ever was whelped!"

"What does he say?"

"Says he must have it."

"Did you tell him what I told you?"

"I told him, Sir, that you had not got the returns from your

farm that you expected this year, owing to one thing and

'nother; and that you couldn't make up the cash for him all at

once; and that he would have to wait a spell, but that he'd be

sure to get it in the long run. Nobody ever suffered by Mr.

Ringgan yet, as I told him."

"Well?"

"Well, Sir, — he was altogether refractible; he's as pig-

headed a fellow as I ever see."

"What did he say?"

"He gave me names, and swore he wouldn't wait a day longer —

said he'd waited already six months."

"He has so. I couldn't meet the last payment. There's a year's

rent due now. I can't help it. There needn't have been an

hour, if I could go about and attend to things myself. I have

been altogether disappointed in that Didenhover."

"I expect you have."

"What do you suppose he'll do, Mr. Jolly? — McGowan, I mean."

"I expect he'll do what the law 'll let him, Mr. Ringgan; I

don't know what 'll hinder him."

"It's a worse turn than I thought my infirmities would ever

play me," said the old gentleman after a short pause — "first

to lose the property altogether, and then not to be permitted

to wear out what is left of life in the old place — there wont

be much."

"So I told him, Mr. Ringgan. I put it to him. Says I, 'Mr.

McGowan, it's a cruel hard business; there ain't a man in town

that wouldn't leave Mr. Ringgan the shelter of his own roof as

long as he wants any, and think it a pleasure, if the rent was

anyhow.' "

"Well — well!" said the old gentleman, with a mixture of

dignity and bitterness, — "it doesn't much matter. My head

will find a shelter somehow, above ground or under it. — The

Lord will provide. — Whey! stand still, can't ye! What ails

the fool? The creature's seen years enough to be steady," he

added, with a miserable attempt at his usual cheerful laugh.

Fleda had turned away her head and tried not to hear when the

lowered tones of the speakers seemed to say that she was one

too many in the company. But she could not help catching a few

bits of the conversation, and a few bits were generally enough

for Fleda's wit to work upon; she had a singular knack at

putting loose ends of talk together. If more had been wanting,

the tones of her grandfather's voice would have filled up

every gap in the meaning of the scattered words that came to

her ear. Her heart sank fast as the dialogue went on; and she

needed no commentary or explanation to interpret the bitter

little laugh with which it closed. It was a chill upon all the

rosy joys and hopes of a most joyful and hopeful little

nature.

The old mare was in motion again, but Fleda no longer cared or

had the curiosity to ask where they were going. The

bittersweet lay listlessly in her lap; her letter, clasped to

her breast, was not thought of; and tears were quietly running

one after the other down her cheeks and falling on her sleeve;

she dared not lift her handkerchief nor turn her face towards

her grandfather lest they should catch his eye. Her

grandfather? — could it be possible that he must be turned out

of his old home in his old age? could it be possible? Mr.

Jolly seemed to think it might be, and her grandfather seemed

to think it must. Leave the old house! But where would he go?

— Son or daughter he had none left; resources he could have

none, or this need not happen. Work he could not; be dependent

upon the charity of any kin or friend she knew he would never;

she remembered hearing him once say he could better bear to go

to the almshouse than do any such thing. And then, if they

went, he would have his pleasant room no more where the sun

shone in so cheerfully, and they must leave the dear old

kitchen where they had been so happy; and the meadows and

hills would belong to somebody else, and she would gather her

stores of butternuts and chestnuts under the loved old trees

never again. But these things were nothing, though the image

of them made the tears come hot and fast, these were nothing

in her mind to the knowledge or the dread of the effect the

change would have upon Mr. Ringgan. Fleda knew him, and knew

it would not be slight. Whiter his head could not be, more

bowed it well might; and her own bowed in anticipation as her

childish fears and imaginings ran on into the possible future.

Of McGowan's tender mercies she had no hope. She had seen him

once, and being unconsciously even more of a physiognomist

than most children are, that one sight of him was enough to

verify all Mr. Jolly had said. The remembrance of his hard,

sinister face sealed her fears. Nothing but evil could come of

having to do with such a man. It was, however, still not so

much any foreboding of the future that moved Fleda's tears as

the sense of her grandfather's present pain, — the quick

answer of her gentle nature to every sorrow that touched him.

His griefs were doubly hers. Both from his openness of

character and her penetration, they could rarely be felt un-

shared; and she shared them always in more than due measure.

In beautiful harmony, while the child had forgotten herself in

keen sympathy with her grandfather's sorrows, he, on the other

hand, had half lost sight of them in caring for her. Again,

and this time not before any house but in a wild piece of

woodland, the little wagon came to a stop.

"Aint there some holly berries that I see yonder?" said Mr.

Ringgan, — "there, through those white birch stems? That's

what you were wanting, Fleda, aint it? Give your bittersweet

to me while you go get some, — and here, take this knife,

dear, you can't break it. Don't cut yourself."

Fleda's eyes were too dim to see white birch or holly, and she

had no longer the least desire to have the latter; but with

that infallible tact which assuredly is the gift of nature and

no other, she answered, in a voice that she forced to be

clear, "O yes! thank you, Grandpapa;" — and stealthily dashing

away the tears, clambered down from the rickety little wagon,

and plunged with a _cheerful_ step at least, through trees and

underbrush to the clump of holly. But if anybody had seen

Fleda's face! — while she seemed to be busied in cutting as

large a quantity as possible of the rich shining leaves and

bright berries. Her grandfather's kindness, and her effort to

meet it had wrung her heart; she hardly knew what she was

doing, as she cut off sprig after sprig, and threw them down

at her feet; she was crying sadly, with even audible sobs. She

made a long job of her bunch of holly. But when at last it

must come to an end, she choked back her tears, smoothed her

face, and came back to Mr. Ringgan smiling and springing over

the stones and shrubs in her way, and exclaiming at the beauty

of her vegetable stores. If her cheeks were red, he thought it

was the flush of pleasure and exercise, and she did not let

him get a good look at her eyes.

"Why, you've got enough to dress up the front room chimney,"

said he. "That'll be the best thing you can do with 'em, wont

it?"

"The front room chimney! No, indeed I wont, Grandpa. I don't

want 'em where nobody can see them, and you know we are never

in there now it is cold weather."

"Well, dear! anyhow you like to have it. But you ha'n't a jar

in the house big enough for them, have you?"

"O, I'll manage — I've got an old broken pitcher without a

handle, Grandpa, that'll do very well."

"A broken pitcher! that isn't a very elegant vase," said he.

"O you wouldn't know it is a pitcher when I have fixed it.

I'll cover up all the broken part with green you know. Are we

going home now, Grandpa?"

"No, I want to stop a minute at uncle Joshua's."

Uncle Joshua was a brother-in-law of Mr. Ringgan, a

substantial farmer, and very well to do in the world. He was

found not in the house, but abroad in the field with his men,

loading an enormous basket wagon with corn-stalks. At Mr.

Ringgan's shout he got over the fence, and came to the wagon-

side. His face showed sense and shrewdness, but nothing of the

open nobility of mien which nature had stamped upon that of

his brother.

"Fine morning, eh?" said he. "I'm getting in my corn-stalks."

"So I see," said Mr. Ringgan. "How do you find the new way of

curing them answer?"

"Fine as ever you see. Sweet as a nut. The cattle are mad

after them. How are you going to be off for fodder this

winter?"

"It's more than I can tell you," said Mr. Ringgan. "There

ought to be more than plenty; but Didenhover contrives to

bring everything out at the wrong end. I wish I was rid of

him."

"He'll never get a berth with me, I can tell you," said uncle

Joshua, laughing.

"Brother," said Mr. Ringgan, lowering his tone again, "have

you any loose cash you could let me have for six months or

so?"

Uncle Joshua took a meditative look down the road, turned a

quid of tobacco in his cheek, and finally brought his eyes

again to Mr. Ringgan and answered.

"Well, I don't see as I can," said he. "You see, Josh is just

a going to set up for himself at Kenton, and he'll want some

help of me; and I expect that'll be about as much as I can

manage to lay my hands on."

"Do you know who has any that he would be likely to lend?"

said Mr. Ringgan.

"No, I don't. Money is rather scarce. For your rent, eh?"

"Yes, for my rent! The farm brings me in nothing but my

living. That Didenhover is ruining me, brother Joshua."

"He's feathering his own nest, I reckon."

"You may swear to that. There wa'n't as many bushels of grain,

by one fourth, when they were threshed out last year, as I had

calculated there would be in the field. I don't know what on

earth he could have done with it. I suppose it'll be the same

thing over this year."

"May be he has served you as Deacon Travis was served by one

of his help last season — the rascal bored holes in the

granary floor and let out the corn so, and Travis couldn't

contrive how his grain went till the floor was empty next

spring, and then he see how it was."

"Ha! — did he catch the fellow?"

"Not he — he had made tracks before that. A word in your ear —

I wouldn't let Didenhover see much of his salary till you know

how he will come out at the end."

"He has got it already!" said Mr. Ringgan, with a nervous

twitch at the old mare's head; "he wheedled me out of several

little sums on one pretence and another, — he had a brother in

New York that he wanted to send some to, and goods that he

wanted to get out of pawn, and so on, — and I let him have it!

and then there was one of those fatting steers that he

proposed to me to let him have on account, and I thought it

was as good a way of paying him as any; and that made up

pretty near the half of what was due to him."

"I warrant you his'n was the fattest of the whole lot. Well,

keep a tight hold of the other half, brother Elzevir, that's

my advice to you."

"The other half he was to make upon shares."

"Whew! — well — I wish you well rid of him; and don't make

such another bargain again. Good-day to ye!"

It was with a keen pang that little Fleda saw the down-hearted

look of her grandfather as again he gave the old mare notice

to move on. A few minutes passed in deep thought on both

sides.

"Grandpa," said Fleda, "wouldn't Mr. Jolly perhaps know of

somebody that might have some money to lend?"

"I declare!" said the old gentleman, after a moment, "that's

not a bad thought. I wonder I didn't have it myself."

They turned about, and without any more words measured back

their way to Queechy Run. Mr. Jolly came out again, brisk and

alert as ever; but after seeming to rack his brains in search

of any actual or possible money-lender, was obliged to confess

that it was in vain; he could not think of one.

"But I'll tell you what, Mr. Ringgan," he concluded, "I'll

turn it over in my mind to-night and see if I can think of

anything that'll do, and if I can I'll let you know. If we

hadn't such a nether millstone to deal with, it would be easy

enough to work it somehow."

So they set forth homewards again.

"Cheer up, dear!" said the old gentleman, heartily, laying one

hand on his little granddaughter's lap; "it will be arranged

somehow. Don't you worry your little head with business. God

will take care of us."

"Yes, grandpa!" said the little girl, looking up with an

instant sense of relief at these words; and then looking down

again immediately to burst into tears.