The Lightcaps were at supper; father and eldest son, each of whom stood six feet in his stockings, with shirt sleeves rolled up above their elbows, displaying brown sinewy arms; the mother in a faded calico, grizzled hair drawn straight back from a dull, careworn face and gathered into a little knot behind in which was stuck a yellow horn comb; years of incessant toil and frequent exposure to sun and wind had not improved a naturally dark, rough skin, and there was no attempt at adornment in her attire, not a collar or a ruffle to cover up the unsightliness of the yellow, wrinkled neck.

Rhoda Jane, the eldest daughter, seated at her father's right hand, was a fac-simile of what the mother had been in her girlhood, with perhaps an added touch of intelligence and a somewhat more bold and forward manner.

There were besides several younger children of both sexes, quite ordinary looking creatures and just now wholly taken up with the business in hand;—vieing with each other in the amount of bread and butter and molasses, fried potatoes and fried pork they could devour in a given space of time.

"Some new comers in town, mother," remarked Mr. Lightcap, helping himself to a second slice of pork. "The keelboat Mary Ann come up the river with a lot of travellers."

"Who, father? somebody that's going to stay?"

"Yes; that lawyer we heerd was comin', you know. What's his name?"

"Keith," said Rhoda Jane, "I heerd Miss Prior tell Damaris Drybread last Sunday after meetin'. And so they've come, hev they?"

"Yes; I had occasion to go up street a bit ago, and saw George Ward takin' 'em to the Union Hotel; the man hisself and two or three wimmin folks and a lot of young uns."

"Damaris was wishing there'd be some children;" remarked Rhoda Jane, "she wants more scholars."

"It don't foller they'd go to her if there was," put in her brother.

"Oh now you just shut up, Goto! you never did take no stock in Damaris."

"No, nor you neither, Rhoda Jane; 'cept once in a while just fur contrariness. No, I don't take no shine to Miss Drybread; she's a unmitigated old maid."

"I wish the man had been a doctor and good on curin' the agur," said Mrs. Lightcap, replenishing her husband's cap. "What's up now, Rhoda Jane?" as that damsel suddenly pushed back her chair, sprang up, and rushed through the adjoining room to the front door.

"A wagon goin' by filled full of great boxes o' goods," shouted back the girl. "There they're stoppin' at the yaller house on the corner. Come and look."

The whole family, dropping knives and forks, the children with hands and mouths full, ran pell mell to door and windows to enjoy the sight.

"I wonder what's up, father? are we goin' to have a new store over there, think?" queried Mrs. Lightcap, standing on the outer step with her hands on her hips, her gaze turned steadily in the direction of the corner house.

"Dunno, mother; b'lieve I'll jest step over and ask. Come along Goto, I guess they'd like some help with them thar big boxes."

They were kind-hearted, neighborly folk—those early settlers of Pleasant Plains, always ready to lend a helping hand wherever it was needed.

"It's the new lawyer feller's traps," announced Mr. Lightcap, as he and his son rejoined the waiting, expectant wife and children; "he's took the house and we'll have 'em for neighbors."

There was another rush to the door, half an hour later, when the Keiths were seen passing on their way to inspect their future abode.

"The prettiest gal I ever see," remarked Gotobed, gazing admiringly after Mildred's graceful, girlish figure.

"They look like eastern folks," said his mother. "Won't they wish they'd staid where they was when they find out how hard 'tis to get help here?"

"Real stuck up folks; dressed to kill," sneered Rhoda Jane. "Look at the white pantalets on them young uns! and the girl's got a veil on her bunnit."

"Well, what's the harm?" asked her brother. "If you had as pretty a skin, I guess you'd be for takin' care of it too."

"Humph! beauty that's only skin deep won't last," and with a toss of the head Miss Lightcap walked into the house in her most dignified style.

For the next ten days the doings at the corner house and the comings and goings of the Keiths were a source of entertainment and intense interest to their neighbors—the Lightcaps and others; a fact not to be wondered at when we consider the monotony of life in the town at that time;—no railroad, no telegraph, no newspaper, except those brought by the weekly mail; no magazines, no public library, and very few books in private houses.

Really the daily small occurrences in their own little world were pretty nearly all the Pleasant Plainers could find to talk or think about.

And the Keiths, as recent arrivals from an older settled part of the country, and above many of them in the social scale, were considered worthy of more than ordinary attention. Their dress, their manners, the furnishing of their house and their style of living were subjects of eager discussion.

The general opinion among the Lightcaps and their set seemed to be that they were too fine for the place; such remarks as the following being frequently heard,

"Why would you believe it, they've got a real store carpet on that front room, and a sofy and cheers covered with horse-hair cloth and white curtains to the winders and picturs hanging up on to the walls."

"And the little girls wears white pantalets caliker ones such as our youngsters wears isn't good enough for them."

There were in the town, however, a number of families of educated, refined people who rejoiced in this addition to their society and only waited for the new comers to get settled in their new home before calling.

Among these Mrs. Keith and her aunt found several pleasant, congenial companions; and with two or three the acquaintance soon ripened into a close intimacy, a warm, enduring friendship.

Mildred also soon had more than one young girl crony whom she found as worthy of regard as those she had left behind.

Back of the yellow house was a grove of saplings which became a favorite haunt of the children in their hours of recreation. They would bend down the smaller trees and ride them, climb up into the larger and sit among the branches; or build baby-houses and play housekeeping underneath, where the shade was thickest.

It was here they spent the warm, sunny days while the older members of the family busied themselves in making the dwelling habitable and the yard neat and orderly.

On the morning after their arrival Rupert spread a buffalo robe on the ground in the shadiest part of the grove, whereon Zillah and Ada seated themselves with their baby sister who had been entrusted to their care.

There were many lovely wild flowers springing up here and there, and Cyril, Don and Fan ran hither and thither gathering them, prattling merrily to each other the while, and now and then uttering a joyous shout as they came upon some new floral treasure.

"Be careful not to go too far away, children," Zillah called to them.

"No, we won't go far," they answered, Cyril adding, "And I'll take care of Fan."

In a little while they came running back with full hands.

"See, see!" they said, "so many and such pretty ones—blue, and white, and purple, and yellow. There, you take these and we'll pick some more for ourselves. And for mother and Aunt Wealthy; we'll make a big bunch for each of them," and away they ran again.

"Oh, aren't they pretty?" cried Ada. "Let's make a bouquet for mother out of these."

"She won't want two," said Zillah, "'specially just now when she's no place to put them. Let's make wreaths for Annis and Fan."

"Oh yes!" and they began sorting the flowers with eager interest, little Annis pulling at them too, crowing and chattering in sweet baby fashion.

Suddenly Zillah gave a start and laid a trembling hand on Ada's arm. Her face had grown very pale and there was a look of terror in her large blue eyes.

Ada turned quickly to see what had caused it, and was quite as much alarmed on beholding a tall Indian, with rifle in hand, tomahawk and scalping knife in his belt, standing within a few feet of them, evidently regarding them with curiosity.

He wore moccasins and leggins, and had a blanket about his shoulders; feathers on his head, too; but no war paint on his face.

Behind him was a squaw with a great bark basket full of wild berries, slung to her back.

The little girls were too terribly frightened to cry out or speak, they sat there as if turned to stone, while the Indian drew nearer and nearer still closely followed by his squaw.

Stopping close beside the children, he grunted out a word or two to her, and she slung her basket to the ground.

Taking up a double handful of the berries, he poured them into Zillah's lap, saying, "Pappoose!"

The squaw restored her basket to its place and the two walked leisurely away; happily not in the direction of Fan and the boys.

The little girls gazed at each other in blank astonishment; then burst out simultaneously, "Oh, weren't you frightened? I thought he was going to kill us!"

"But wasn't it good in him to give us the berries?"

"Yes; he meant them for baby; but mother doesn't let her have any, you know; so we mustn't give them to her."

"No, but I'll call the children to get some.'

"Yes, do."

"Where did you get em?" queried Cyril, devouring his share with zest.

"An Indian gave them to us."

"An Indian? why that was like a friend and colation! I shan't be 'fraid of 'em any more."

"I don't know," returned Ada with a wise shake of her head, "I'd rather not see 'em even with their berries."

The little feast was just ended when they espied a gentleman passing along the road beyond the grove. He turned and came toward them.

"Good-morning," he said, pleasantly. "These are Mr. Keith's children, I believe?"

"Yes, sir," answered Zillah.

"I'm glad to see you," shaking hands with them; "and I should like to make the acquaintance of your parents. Are they at home, in the house yonder?"

"Mother is, sir; but I saw father go away a little while ago."

"Do you think your mother could see me for a moment? My name is Lord."

Cyril opened his eyes very wide; gazing up into the gentleman's face with an odd expression of mingled curiosity and astonishment.

"I don't know, sir;" answered Zillah, "they're just cleaning the house and—Cyril, run and ask mother."

Away flew the child, rushing into the room where Miss Stanhope and Mrs. Keith were overseeing the opening of boxes and the unpacking of the household gear.

"Mother, mother," he cried breathlessly, "the Lord's out yonder and he wants to see you! Can he come in? shall I bring him?"

"The Lord! what can the child mean?" cried Aunt Wealthy, in her astonishment and perplexity nearly dropping a large china bowl which she held in her hand.

Mrs. Keith, too, looked bewildered for a moment, then a sudden light breaking over her face,

"Yes, bring him in," she said, and turning to her aunt as the child sped on his errand, "It must be the minister, auntie; I remember now that Stuart told me his name was Lord."

Mr. Lord, who was a very absent-minded man, came in apologizing for his "neglect in not calling sooner; he had been engaged with his sermon and the matter had slipped his mind."

"I think you are blaming yourself undeservedly, sir," Mrs. Keith said, giving him her hand with a cordial smile, "we arrived in town only yesterday. Let me introduce you to my aunt, Miss Stanhope."

The two shook hands, and Mr. Lord seating himself upon a box, instead of the chair that had been set for him, sprang up instantly with a hurried exclamation.

A portion of the contents of a paper of tacks had been accidentally spilt there.

The ladies were too polite to smile. Mrs. Keith offered the chair again, simply saying, "You will find this a more comfortable seat; please excuse the disorder we are in;" then plunged into talk about the town and the little church he had recently organized there.