“Mrs. Bangs,” said the schoolmistress, as if it was the most casual thing in the world, “I want to borrow your husband to-morrow.”

It was Friday evening, and supper at the perfect boarding house had advanced as far as the stewed prunes and fruit-cake stage. Keturah, who was carefully dealing out the prunes, exactly four to each saucer, stopped short, spoon in air, and gazed at Miss Dawes.

“You—you want to WHAT?” she asked.

“I want to borrow your husband. I want him all day, too, because I'm thinking of driving over to Trumet, and I need a coachman. You'll go, won't you, Mr. Bangs?”

Bailey, who had been considering the advisability of asking for a second cup of tea, brightened up and looked pleased.

“Why, yes,” he answered, “I'll go. I can go just as well as not. Fact is, I'd like to. Ain't been to Trumet I don't know when.”

Miss Phinney and the widow Tripp looked at each other. Then they both looked at Keturah. That lady's mouth closed tightly, and she resumed her prune distribution.

“I'm sorry,” she said crisply, “but I'm 'fraid he can't go. It's Saturday, and I'll need him round the house. Do you care for cake to-night, Elviry? I'm 'fraid it's pretty dry; I ain't had time to do much bakin' this week.”

“Of course,” continued the smiling Phoebe, “I shouldn't think of asking him to go for nothing. I didn't mean borrow him in just that way. I was thinking of hiring your horse and buggy, and, as I'm not used to driving, I thought perhaps I might engage Mr. Bangs to drive for me. I expected to pay for the privilege. But, as you need him, I suppose I must get my rig and driver somewhere else. I'm so sorry.”

The landlady's expression changed. This was the dull season, and opportunities to “let” the family steed and buggy—“horse and team,” we call it in Bayport—were few.

“Well,” she observed, “I don't want to be unlikely and disobligin'. Far's he's concerned, he'd rather be traipsin' round the country than stay to home, any day; though it's been so long sence he took ME to ride that I don't know's I'd know how to act.”

“Why, Ketury!” protested her husband. “How you talk! Didn't I drive you down to the graveyard only last Sunday—or the Sunday afore?”

“Graveyard! Yes, I notice our rides always fetch up at the graveyard. You're always willin' to take me THERE. Seems sometimes as if you enjoyed doin' it.”

“Now, Keturah! you know yourself that 'twas you proposed goin' there. You said you wanted to look at our lot, 'cause you was afraid 'twan't big enough, and you didn't know but we'd ought to add on another piece. You said that it kept you awake nights worryin' for fear when I passed away you wouldn't have room in that lot for me. Land sakes! don't I remember? Didn't you give me the blue creeps talkin' about it?”

Mrs. Bangs ignored this outburst. Turning to the school teacher, she said with a sigh:

“Well, I guess he can go. I'll get along somehow. I hope he'll be careful of the buggy; we had it painted only last January.”

Mrs. Tripp ventured a hinted question concerning the teacher's errand at Trumet. The reply being noncommittal, the widow cheerfully prophesied that she guessed 'twas going to rain or snow next day. “It's about time for the line storm,” she added.

But it did not storm, although a brisk, cold gale was blowing when, after breakfast next morning, the “horse and team,” with Bailey in his Sunday suit and overcoat, and Miss Dawes on the buggy seat beside him, turned out of the boarding-house yard and started on the twelve-mile journey to Trumet.

It was a bleak ride. Denboro, the village adjoining Bayport on the bay side, is a pretty place, with old elms and silverleafs shading the main street in summer, and with substantial houses set each in its trim yard. But beyond Denboro the Trumet road winds out over rolling, bare hills, with cranberry bogs, now flooded and skimmed with ice, in the hollows between them, clumps of bayberry and beach-plum bushes scattered over their rounded slopes, and white scars in their sides showing where the cranberry growers have cut away the thin layer of coarse grass and moss to reach the sand beneath, sand which they use in preparing their bogs for the new vines.

And the wind! There is always a breeze along the Trumet road, even in summer—when the mosquitoes lie in wait to leeward like buccaneers until, sighting the luckless wayfarer in the offing, they drive down before the wind in clouds, literally to eat him alive. They are skilled navigators, those Trumet road mosquitoes, and they know the advantage of snug harbors under hat brims and behind spreading ears. And each individual smashed by a frantic palm leaves a thousand blood relatives to attend his funeral and exact revenge after the Corsican fashion.

Now, in December, there were, of course, no mosquitoes, but the wind tore across those bare hilltops in gusts that rocked the buggy on its springs. The bayberry bushes huddled and crouched before it. The sky was covered with tumbling, flying clouds, which changed shape continually, and ripped into long, fleecy ravelings, that broke loose and pelted on until merged into the next billowy mass. The bay was gray and white, and in the spots where an occasional sunbeam broke through and struck it, flashed like a turned knife blade.

Bailey drove with one hand and held his hat on his head with the other. The road had been deeply rutted during the November rains, and now the ruts were frozen. The buggy wheels twisted and scraped as they turned in the furrows.

“What's the matter?” asked the schoolmistress, shouting so as to be heard above the flapping of the buggy curtains. “Why do you watch that wheel?”

“'Fraid of the axle,” whooped Mr. Bangs in reply. “Nut's kind of loose, for one thing, and the way the wheel wobbles I'm scart she'll come off. Call this a road!” he snorted indignantly. “More like a plowed field a consider'ble sight. Jerushy, how she blows! No wonder they raise so many deef and dumb folks in Trumet. I'd talk sign language myself if I lived here. What's the use of wastin' strength pumpin' up words when they're blowed back down your throat fast enough to choke you? Git dap, Henry! Don't you see the meetin' house steeple? We're most there, thank the goodness.”

In Trumet Center, which is not much of a center, Miss Dawes alighted from the buggy and entered a building bearing a sign with the words “Metropolitan Variety Store, Joshua Atwood, Prop'r, Groceries, Coal, Dry Goods, Insurance, Boots and Shoes, Garden Seeds, etc.” A smaller sign beneath this was lettered “Justice of the Peace,” and one below that read “Post Office.”

She emerged a moment later, followed by an elderly person in a red cardigan jacket and overalls.

“Take the fust turnin' to the left, marm,” he said pointing. “It's pretty nigh to East Trumet townhall. Fust house this side of the blacksmith shop. About two mile, I'd say. Windy day for drivin', ain't it? That horse of yours belongs in Bayport, I cal'late. Looks to me like—Hello, Bailey!”

“Hello, Josh!” grunted Mr. Bangs, adding an explanatory aside to the effect that he knew Josh Atwood, the latter having once lived in Bayport.

“But say,” he asked as they moved on once more, “have we got to go to EAST Trumet? Jerushy! that's the place where the wind COMES from. They raise it over there; anyhow, they don't raise much else. Whose house you goin' to?”

He had asked the same question at least ten times since leaving home, and each time Miss Dawes had evaded it. She did so now, saying that she was sure she should know the house when they got to it.

The two miles to East Trumet were worse than the twelve which they had come. The wind fairly shrieked here, for the road paralleled the edge of high sand bluffs close by the shore, and the ruts and “thank-you-marms” were trying to the temper. Bailey's was completely wrecked.

“Teacher,” he snapped as they reached the crest of a long hill, and a quick grab at his hat alone prevented its starting on a balloon ascension, “get out a spell, will you? I've got to swear or bust, and 'long's you're aboard I can't swear. What you standin' still for, you?” he bellowed at poor Henry, the horse, who had stopped to rest. “I cal'late the critter thinks that last cyclone must have blowed me sky high, and he's waitin' to see where I light. Git dap!”

“I guess I shall get out very soon now,” panted Phoebe. “There's the blacksmith shop over there near the next hill, and this house in the hollow must be the one I'm looking for.”

They pulled up beside the house in the hollow. A little, story-and-a-half house it was, and, judging by the neglected appearance of the weeds and bushes in the yard, it had been unoccupied for some time. However, the blinds were now open, and a few fowls about the back door seemed to promise that some one was living there. The wooden letter box by the gate had a name stenciled upon it. Miss Dawes sprang from the buggy and looked at the box.

“Yes,” she said. “This is the place. Will you come in, Mr. Bangs? You can put your horse in that barn, I'm sure, if you want to.”

But Bailey declined to come in. He declared he was going on to the blacksmith's shop to have that wheel fixed. He would not feel safe to start for home with it as it was. He drove off, and Miss Dawes, knowing from lifelong experience that front doors are merely for show, passed around the main body of the house and rapped on the door in the ell. The rap was not answered, though she could hear some one moving about within, and a shrill voice singing “The Sweet By and By.” So she rapped again and again, but still no one came to the door. At last she ventured to open it.

A thin woman, with her head tied up in a colored cotton handkerchief, was in the room, vigorously wielding a broom. She was singing in a high cracked voice. The opening of the door let in a gust of cold wind which struck the singer in the back of the neck, and caused her to turn around hastily.

“Hey?” she exclaimed. “Land sakes! you scare a body to death! Shut that door quick! I ain't hankering for influenzy. Who are you? What do you want? Why didn't you knock? Where's my specs?”

She took a pair of spectacles from the mantel shelf, rubbed them with her apron, and set them on the bridge of her thin nose. Then she inspected the schoolmistress from head to foot.

“I beg pardon for coming in,” shouted Phoebe. “I knocked, but you didn't hear. You are Mrs. Beasley, aren't you?”

“I don't want none,” replied Debby, with emphasis. “So there's no use your wastin' your breath.”

“Don't want—” repeated the astonished teacher. “Don't want what?”

“Hey? I say I don't want none.”

“Don't want WHAT?”

“Whatever 'tis you're peddlin'. Books or soap or tea, or whatever 'tis. I don't want nothin'.”

After some strenuous minutes, the visitor managed to make it clear to Mrs. Beasley's mind that she was not a peddler. She tried to add a word of further explanation, but it was effort wasted.

“'Tain't no use,” snapped Debby, “I can't hear you, you speak so faint. Wait till I get my horn; it's in the settin' room.”

Phoebe's wonder as to what the “horn” might be was relieved by the widow's appearance, a moment later, with the biggest ear trumpet her caller had ever seen.

“There, now!” she said, adjusting the instrument and thrusting the bell-shaped end under the teacher's nose. “Talk into that. If you ain't a peddler, what be you—sewin' machine agent?”

Phoebe explained that she had come some distance on purpose to see Mrs. Beasley. She was interested in the Thayers, who used to live in Orham, particularly in Mr. John Thayer, who died in 1854. She had been told that Debby formerly lived with the Thayers, and could, no doubt, remember a great deal about them. Would she mind answering a few questions, and so on?

Mrs. Beasley, her hearing now within forty-five degrees of the normal, grew interested. She ushered her visitor into the adjoining room, and proffered her a chair. That sitting room was a wonder of its kind, even to the teacher's accustomed eyes. A gilt-framed crayon enlargement of the late Mr. Beasley hung in the center of the broadest wall space, and was not the ugliest thing in the apartment. Having said this, further description is unnecessary—particularly to those who remember Mr. Beasley's personal appearance.

“What you so interested in the Thayers for?” inquired Debby. “One of the heirs, be you? They didn't leave nothin'.”

No, the schoolmistress was not an heir. Was not even a relative of the family. But she was—was interested, just the same. A friend of hers was a relative, and—

“What is your friend?” inquired the inquisitor. “A man?”

There was no reason why Miss Dawes should have changed color, but, according to Debby's subsequent testimony, she did; she blushed, so the widow declares.

“No,” she protested. “Oh, no! it's a—she's a child, that's all—a little girl. But—”

“Maybe you're gettin' up one of them geographical trees,” suggested Mrs. Beasley. “I've seen 'em, fust settlers down in the trunk, and children and grandchildren spreadin' out in the branches. Is that it?”

Here was an avenue of escape. Phoebe stretched the truth a trifle, and admitted that that, or something of the sort, was what she was engaged in. The explanation seemed to be satisfactory. Debby asked her visitor's name, and, misunderstanding it, addressed her as “Miss Dorcas” thereafter. Then she proceeded to give her reminiscences of the Thayers, and it did not take long for the disappointed teacher to discover that, for all practical purposes, these reminiscences were valueless. Mrs. Beasley remembered many things, but nothing at all concerning John Thayer's life in the West, nor the name of the ship he sailed in, nor who his shipmates were.

“He never wrote home but once or twice afore he died,” she said. “And when he did Emily, his wife, never told me what was in his letters. She always burnt 'em, I guess. I used to hunt around for 'em when she was out, but she burnt 'em to spite me, I cal'late. Her and me didn't get along any too well. She said I talked too much to other folks about what was none of their business. Now, anybody that knows me knows THAT ain't one of my failin's. I told her so; says I—”

And so on for ten minutes. Then Phoebe ventured to repeat the words “out West,” and her companion went off on a new tack. She had just been West herself. She had been on a visit to her husband's niece, who lived in Arizona. In Blazeton, Arizona. “It's the nicest town ever you see,” she continued. “And the smartest, most up-to-date place. Talk about the West bein' oncivilized! My land! you ought to see that town! Electric lights, and telephones, and—and—I don't know what all! Why, Miss What's-your-name—Miss Dorcas, marm, you just ought to see the photygraphs I've got that was took out there. My niece, she took 'em with one of them little mites of cameras. You wouldn't believe such a little box of a thing could take such photygraphs. I'm goin' to get 'em and show 'em to you. No, sir! you ain't got to go, neither. Set right still and let me fetch them photygraphs. 'Twon't be a mite of trouble. I'd love to do it.”

Protests were unavailing. The photographs, at least fifty of them, were produced, and the suffering caller was shown the Blazeton City Hall, and the Blazeton “Palace Hotel,” and the home of the Beasley niece, taken from the front, the rear, and both sides. With each specimen Debby delivered a descriptive lecture.

“You see that house?” she asked. “Well, 'tain't much of a one to look at, but it's got the most interestin' story tagged on to it. I made Eva, that's my niece, take a picture of it just on that account. The woman that lives there's had the hardest time. Her fust name's Desire, and that kind of made me take an interest in her right off, 'cause I had an Aunt Desire once, and it's a name you don't hear very often. Afterwards I got to know her real well. She was a widder woman, like me, only she didn't have as much sense as I've got, and went and married a second time. 'Twas 'long in 1886 she done it. This man Higgins, he went to work for her on her place, and pretty soon he married her. They lived together, principally on her fust husband's insurance money, I cal'late, until a year or so ago. Then the insurance money give out, and Mr. Higgins he says: 'Old woman,' he says—I'D never let a husband of mine call me 'old woman,' but Desire didn't seem to mind—'Old woman,' he says, 'I'm goin' over to Phoenix'—that's another city in Arizona—'to look for a job.' And he went, and she ain't heard hide—I mean seen hide nor heard hair—What DOES ail me? She ain't seen nor heard of him since. And she advertised in the weekly paper, and I don't know what all. She thinks he was murdered, you know; that's what makes it so sort of creepy and interestin'. Everybody was awful kind to her, and we got to be real good friends. Why, I—”

This was but the beginning. It was evident that Mrs. Beasley had thoroughly enjoyed herself in Blazeton, and that the sorrows of the bereaved Desire Higgins had been one of the principal sources of that enjoyment. The schoolmistress endeavored to turn the subject, but it was useless.

“I fetched home a whole pile of them newspapers,” continued Debby. “They was awful interestin'; full of pictures of Blazeton buildin's and leadin' folks and all. And in some of the back numbers was the advertisement about Mr. Higgins. I do wish I could show 'em to you, but I lent 'em to Mrs. Atwood up to the Center. If 'twan't such a ways I'd go and fetch 'em. Mrs. Atwood's been awful nice to me. She took care of my trunks and things when I went West—yes, and afore that when I went to Bayport to keep house for that miser'ble Cap'n Whittaker. I ain't told you about that, but I will by and by. Them trunks had lots of things in 'em that I didn't want to lose nor have anybody see. My diaries—I've kept a diary since 1850—and—”

“Diaries?” interrupted Phoebe, grasping at straws. “Did you keep a diary while you were at the Thayers?”

“Yes. Now, why didn't I think of that afore? More'n likely there'd be somethin' in that to help you with that geographical tree. I used to put down everything that happened, and—Where you goin'?”

Miss Dawes had risen and was peering out of the window.

“I was looking to see if my driver was anywhere about,” she replied. “I thought perhaps he would drive over to Mrs. Atwood's and get the diary for you. But I don't see him.”

Just then, from around the corner of the house, peeped an agitated face; an agitated forefinger beckoned. Debby stepped to the window beside her visitor, and the face and finger went out of sight as if pulled by a string.

Miss Phoebe smiled.

“I think I'll go out and look for him,” she said. “He must be near here. I'll be right back, Mrs. Beasley.”

Without stopping to put on her jacket, she hurried through the dining room, out of the door, and around the corner. There she found Mr. Bangs in a highly nervous state.

“Why didn't you tell me 'twas Debby Beasley you was comin' to see?” he demanded. “If you'd mentioned that deef image's name you'd never got ME to drive you, I tell you that!”

“Yes,” answered the teacher sweetly. “I imagined that. That's why I didn't tell you, Mr. Bangs. Now I want you to do me a favor. Will you drive over to Trumet Center, and deliver a note and get a package for me? Then you can come back here, and I shall be ready to start for home.”

“Drive! Drive nothin'! The blacksmith's out, and won't be back for another hour. His boy's there, but he's a big enough lunkhead to try bailin' out a dory with a fork, and that buggy axle is bent so it's simply got to be fixed. I'd no more go home to Ketury with that buggy as 'tis than I'd—Oh! my land of love!”

The ejaculation was almost a groan. There at the corner, ear trumpet adjusted, and spectacles glistening, stood Debby Beasley. Bailey appeared to wilt under her gaze as if the spectacles were twin suns. Miss Dawes looked as if she very much wanted to laugh. The widow stared in silence.

“How—how d'ye do, Mrs. Beasley?” faltered Mr. Bangs, not forgetting to raise his voice. “I hope you're lookin' as well as you feel. I mean, I hope you're smart.”

Mrs. Beasley nodded decisively.

“Yes,” she answered. “I'm pretty toler'ble, thank you. What was the matter, Mr. Bangs? Why didn't you come in? Do you usually make your calls round the corner?”

The gentleman addressed seemed unable to reply. The schoolmistress came to the rescue.

“You mustn't blame Mr. Bangs, Mrs. Beasley,” she explained. “He wasn't responsible for what happened at Captain Whittaker's. He is the gentleman who drove me over here. I was going to send him to Mrs. Atwood's for the diary.”

“Who said I was blamin' him?” queried the widow. “If 'twas that little Tidditt thing I might feel different. But, considerin' that I got this horn from Mr. Bangs, I'm willin' to let bygones be past. It helps my hearin' a lot. Them ear-fixin's was good while they lasted, but they got out of kilter quick. I shan't bother Mr. Bangs. If he can square his own conscience, I'm satisfied.”

Bailey's conscience was not troubling him greatly, and he seemed relieved. Phoebe told of the damaged buggy.

“Humph!” grunted the widow. “The horse didn't get bent, too, did he?”

Mr. Bangs indignantly declared that the horse was all right.

“Um—hum. Well, then, I guess I can supply a carriage. My fust cousin Ezra that died used to be doctor here, and he give me his sulky when he got a new one. It's out in the barn. Go fetch your horse, and harness him in. I'll be ready time the harnessin's done.”

“You?” gasped the teacher. “You don't need to go, Mrs. Beasley. I wouldn't think of giving you that trouble.”

“No trouble at all. I wouldn't trust nobody else with them trunks. And besides, I always do enjoy ridin'. You could go, too, Miss Dorcas, but the sulky seat's too narrer for three. You can set in the settin' room till we get back. 'Twon't take us long. Don't say another word; I'm A-GOIN'.”