THE ensuing week was a busy one for Philip and Grace; for to announce an unsuspected marriage and a coming departure at one and the same time to two sets of acquaintances is no ordinary task, even to two social nobodies in New York. Besides, Philip had lost no time in making the legal acknowledgment that was requisite to the cashing of his check, and in spending a portion of the proceeds. A short letter came from Caleb Wright, enclosing one almost equally short from the late Jethro Somerton, which assured Philip of Caleb's honesty and general trustworthiness, and that the business would not suffer for a few days.

"Caleb is a far better and broader man than I," Philip's uncle had written, "but he lacks force and push. I'm satisfied he can't help it. He is stronger than he looks, and younger too, but he was fool enough to take part in the Civil War, where he got a bullet that is still roaming about in him, besides a thorough malarial soaking that medicine can't cure. This often makes him dull; sometimes for weeks together. But he knows human nature through and through, and if I had a son to bring up, I'd rather give the job to Caleb than trust myself with it. He has done me a lot of good in some ways, and I feel indebted to him and want him to be well cared for as long as he lives. His salary is small, and he won't ask to have it increased; but sometimes he'll insist that you help him with some projects of his own, and I advise you to do it, for he will make your life miserable until you do, and the cost won't be great. I used to fight him and lose my temper over some of his hobbies, but now I wish I hadn't; 'twould have been cheaper."

"That," said Philip, after reading the passage to Grace, "is about as tantalizing as if written for the purpose of teasing me, for there's not a shadow of hint as to the nature of Caleb's projects and hobbies. He may be experimenting in perpetual motion or at extracting sunshine from cucumbers. Still, as the man is honest and his freaks are not expensive, I don't see that I can suffer greatly. By the way, when I informed our firm that they would have to endure the withdrawal of my valuable services, and told them the reason, they were not a bit surprised; they said my uncle had written them several times, asking about my progress and character, and they had been unable to say anything to my discredit. They had been curious enough to make inquiries, from the commercial agencies, about the writer of the letters, and they took pleasure in informing me that Uncle Jethro's store, houses, farms, were estimated by good judges, at—guess how much."

Grace wondered vaguely a moment or two before she replied:—

"Aunt Eunice's cousin was the principal merchant in a town of two or three thousand people, and his estate, at his death, was—inventoried, I think was the word—at twelve thousand dollars. Is it as much as that?"

"Multiply it by six, my dear, and you'll be within the mark, which is seventy-five thousand dollars."

"Oh, Phil!"

"I repeat it, seventy-five thousand dollars, and that in a country where a family with a thousand a year can live on the fat of the land! Our firm declares that our fortune will be as much to us, out there, as half a million would be in New York. Doesn't that make your heart dance? I can give you horses and carriages, dress you in silks and laces, hire plenty of servants for you; in short, make you in appearance and luxury what you will be by nature, the finest lady in the county. Dear woman, the better I've learned to know you, the more guilty I've felt at having married you; for I saw plainly that you were fit to adorn any station in the world, instead of being the wife of a man so poor that you yourself had to work for wages to help us have a home. At times I've felt so mean about it that—"

Grace stopped further utterance on the subject by murmuring:—

"Seventy-five thousand dollars! What shall we do with it?"

"Enjoy it, dear girl; that's what we shall do. We've youth, health, taste, spirits, energy, and best of all, love. If all these qualities can't help us to enjoy money, I can't imagine what else can. Besides, Claybanks is bound to be a city in the course of a few years—so uncle said; and if he was right, we will be prepared to take the lead in society. 'Twon't be injudicious to have the largest, best-furnished house, and a full circle of desirable acquaintances, against the time when the sleepy village shall be transformed in a day, Western fashion, into a bustling city."

The several days that followed were spent largely in longings to get away, and regrets at leaving New York's many new delights that were at last within reach; but finally Philip wrote Caleb Wright that he would arrive at Claybanks on a specified date, and asked that the best room in the best hotel be engaged for him. The couple reached the railway station at dawn of a dull December morning, and after an hour of effort, while Grace remained in the single room at the station and endeavored not to be nauseated by the mixed odors of stale tobacco, an overloaded stove, and a crate of live chickens awaiting shipment, Philip found a conveyance to take them to Claybanks. The unpaved road was very muddy, and the trees were bare, the farm-houses were few and unsightly. Philip was obliged to ask:—

"Isn't it shockingly dismal?"

"Is this the road," Grace answered, "over which you walked, at night, when you visited your uncle?"

"The very same, I suppose, for there's never a choice of roads between two unimportant places."

"Then I sha'n't complain," said Grace, nestling very close to her husband.

The outlook did not improve as the travellers came near to the village of Claybanks. Houses were more numerous, but most of them were very small, many were unpainted, and some were of rough logs. The fences, while exhibiting great variety of design, were almost uniform in shabbiness.

"Rather a dismal picture, isn't it?" asked Philip. "It suggests a kalsominer's attempt to copy a Corot."

"I'm keeping my eyes closed," Grace replied. "I'm going to defer being impressed by the town until a sunny day arrives."

"If you were to look about you now," said Philip, gloomily, "you'd see the fag end of nothing—the jumping-off place of the world. How my uncle succeeded in living here—still stranger in making money here—passes my comprehension."

The best room at the hotel proved to be quite clean, but as bare as a hotel chamber could be, and also very cold. Philip begged for one with a fire, but was told that all warmed rooms were already occupied by regular lodgers. Fortunately breakfast was being served. It consisted of fried pork, fried sausage, fried eggs, tough biscuits, butter of a flavor which the newest guests neither recalled nor approved, two kinds of pie, and coffee.

"If this is the best hotel Caleb could find for us, what can the worst be?" whispered Philip.

"Perhaps we can find board in a private family," whispered Grace, in reply.

"How early will Somerton's store be open?" asked Philip of the landlord, who had also served as table-waiter.

"It's been open since daybreak, I reckon; it usually is," was the reply. "I shouldn't wonder if you was the new boss, seein' you have the same name. Well, I'm glad to see you. I'm one of your customers."

"Thank you very much. Is the store far from here?"

"Only two blocks up street. You'll find Caleb there. You know Caleb Wright?"

"Oh, yes; I've been here before."

"That so? Must have put up at the other hotel, then—or mebbe you stopped with your uncle."

"Er—yes, for the little while I was in town. I wish there was a warm room in which my wife could rest, while I go up to the store to see Caleb."

"Well, what's the matter with the parlor? Come along; let me show you."

Philip looked into the parlor; so did Grace, who quickly said:—

"Do let me go to the store with you. You know I always enjoy a walk after breakfast."

"Pretty soft walkin', ma'am," said the landlord, after eying Grace's daintily shod feet. "Better let me borrow you my wife's gum shoes; she ain't likely to go out of the house to-day. You ought to have gum boots, though, if you're dead set on walkin' about in winter."

Grace thanked the landlord for his offer and advice, but hurried Phil out of the hotel, after which she said:—

"That was my first visit to a hotel of any kind. Do they improve on acquaintance? Oh, Phil! Don't look so like a thunder-cloud! What can the matter be?"

"I should have been thoughtful enough to come a day or two in advance, and found a proper home for you. I hope Caleb will know of one. Be careful!—the sidewalk is ending. Let me go first."

Two or three successive planks served as continuation of the sidewalk, and their ends did not quite join, but Philip skilfully piloted his wife along them. Beyond, in front of a residence, was a brick walk about two feet wide, after which was encountered soft mud for about fifty linear feet. Philip looked about for bits of board, stone, brick—anything with which to make solid footing at short intervals. But he could see nothing available; neither could he see any person out of doors, so in desperation he took Grace in his arms and carried her to a street-crossing, where to his delight he saw a broad stick of hewn timber embedded in the mud and extending from side to side. After this were some alternations of brick sidewalk, mud, and a short causeway of tan-bark, the latter ending at a substantial pavement in front of a store over which was a weatherbeaten sign bearing the name Jethro Somerton.

"The treasure-house of Her Majesty Grace I., Queen of Claybanks," said Philip. "Shall we enter?"

As Philip opened the door, a small man who was replenishing the stove looked around, dropped a stick of wood, wiped his hands on his coat, came forward, smiling pleasantly, and said:—

"Mr. Somerton, I'm very glad to see you again."

"Thank you, Mr. Wright. Let me make you acquainted with Mrs. Somerton."

Caleb seemed not a bit appalled as he shook hands with Grace. He held her hand several seconds while he looked at her, and seemed to approve of what he saw; then he said:—

"Your uncle told me of your marriage, and thought you'd been very unwise. I reckon he'd change his mind if he was here, though 'twas a hard one to change."

Grace blushed slightly and replied:—

"I hope so, I'm sure. Have you had the entire work of the store since Uncle Jethro died?"

"Uncle—Jethro! I don't believe he'd have died if he'd heard you say that! Well, yes, I've been alone here. Your husband wrote he'd be along pretty soon, an' as the roads was so soft that the farmers didn't come to town much, I didn't think it worth while to get extra help. Come into the back room, won't you? There's chairs there, an' a good fire too."

"Are the farmers your principal customers?" Grace asked, as she sank into a capacious wooden armchair.

"Well, they're the most important ones. They take most time, too, though some of the women-folks in this town can use more time in spendin' a quarter an' makin' up their minds—principally the latter, than—well, I don't s'pose you can imagine how they wait, an' fuss, an' turn things over, an'—"

"Oh, indeed I can," said Grace; "for once I was a country girl, and in New York I was a saleswoman in a store, and have waited on just such customers half an hour at a time without making a sale, though the store was one of the biggest in the city, and its prices were as low as any."

"I want to know!" exclaimed Caleb, whose eyes had opened wide while Grace talked. "You?—a country gal?—an' a saleswoman? I wouldn't have thought it!"

"Why not? Don't I look clever enough?"

"Oh, that ain't it, but—"

"Some day, when you and Philip are real busy," suggested Grace, "perhaps you'll let me help you behind the counter."

"Mrs. Somerton is a great joker," explained Philip, as Caleb continued to look incredulous.

"But I wasn't joking," said Grace. "I'll really help in the store some day when—"

"When your husband lets you, you said," remarked Philip.

"Well," drawled Caleb, slowly regaining his customary expression, "I shouldn't wonder if Mrs. Somerton's the kind that's let to do pretty much as she likes."

Philip laughed, and replied:—

"You're a quick judge of human nature, Mr. Wright. But before we talk business I want some advice and assistance. We can't live at that hotel; for my wife would have to sit in a cold room all day, which isn't to be thought of. Can't you suggest a boarding place, in a private family?"

"Scarcely, I'm afraid," Caleb replied after a moment of thought. "I don't b'lieve any families here ever took boarders, or would know how to do it to your likin'. What's the matter with your takin' your uncle's house an' livin' in it? It's plain, but comfortable, an' just as he left it."

"Is there a servant in it?"

"Oh, no; there hasn't been since his wife died, an' she wasn't what you city folks call a servant. 'Helper' is what you want to say in these parts. They're hard to get, too, an' if they're not treated same as if they was members of the family, they won't stay. About your uncle,—well, you see he took his meals at the hotel, an' done his own housework, which didn't amount to much except makin' his bed ev'ry mornin' an' makin' fire through the winter. S'pose you take a look at it, when you're good and ready. It's on the back of the store-lot, and the key is in the desk here. Your furniture an' things, that come by rail, I had put in the warehouse behind the store, not knowin' just what you'd want to do."

Philip and Grace looked at each other, and exchanged a few words about possible housekeeping. Caleb looked at both with great interest, and improved the first moment of silence to say:—

"An' she's—you've—been a shop-girl!" Philip frowned slightly, and Caleb hastened to add, "I ort to have said a saleswoman. But who would have thought it!"

"Caleb is a character," Grace said as soon as she and her husband left the store. "I'm going to be very fond of him."

"Very well; do so. I'll promise not to be jealous. He's certainly hearty, and 'tis good for us that he's honest; for we and all we have are practically in his hands and will remain there until I get a grip on the business. But I do wish Uncle Jethro hadn't been so enragingly non-committal about the chap's peculiarities. I shall be on pins and needles until I know what the old gentleman was hinting at. Besides, he may have been entirely mistaken. A mind that could imagine that this out-of-the-world hole-in-the-ground must one day become a city could scarcely have been entirely trustworthy about anything."