I have often wondered how my wife's Aunt Sophy came to be so fond of me from the very beginning of our acquaintance. Up to the time that she visited us at Waydean we had met only casually, yet at the end of that short visit we parted the warmest friends; indeed, she embraced me with motherly affection and implored me to take good care of myself and not work too hard. What, she suggested with tender solicitude, would Marion and dear little Paul do without me if I shortened my life by overwork? I was deeply affected by her thoughtfulness; my eyes glistened with emotion as I promised to be careful, for the mental picture of my family sorrowing over my worn-out frame made me realize what a loss I would be. But whatever her good opinion was based upon, force of circumstances tended to confirm it, for she found many details of our domestic economies that coincided with her ideas of good management, and never failed to attribute to me more than my proper share of credit for the same. It was impossible for me to advance an opinion on any subject without her enthusiastic approval, but whether she approved of the ideas because they were mine, or liked me because of them, I could not determine. Another thing that made her visit enjoyable was Marion's flattering desire to show me up in the best possible light. I was surprised to find that I could work through my repertory of entertaining stories, and yet have my wife join in Aunt Sophy's appreciative laugh with the zest of a first hearing; and whenever Aunt Sophy nodded to her in confidential admiration of my cleverness she would respond with a most charming flush of gratified pride. Not only that, but I have heard her, on occasions when I was supposed to be absorbed in my writing in the next room, allude to my admirable qualities in an artfully casual way; even stating, when the conversation turned on mining stocks, that she was thankful to say that Henry couldn't be induced to put a dollar into any such scheme!

But nothing I had said or done impressed Aunt Sophy as favorably as Marion's version of my opinion on second marriages. During the two months she spent with us at Waydean before her marriage I was often embarrassed by her expressions of gratitude to me for being instrumental in helping her to make up her mind. No one, she said repeatedly, had made her see her duty as clearly as I, and no one else could have said the same things (at this point she always paused to take off her glasses and wipe her eyes) in such beautiful and sympathetic language; young people so often thought that older persons had no right to marry. Nor could I disclaim the sentiments attributed to me when I saw what a comfort they were to the dear old lady.

She was very happy in her preparations, but to me there was something pathetic in her happiness, for I could not help thinking of poor Uncle Philip and wondering if she did too, but as far as I could find out I was the only person in the house who became a prey to saddening reflections. This perplexed me to such an extent that sometimes I was distracted by the fear that I, too, might be forgotten—a maddening conclusion, but logically unassailable. At such times I would hesitatingly ask Marion if she were sure Uncle Philip was forgotten, but she would only reply, "Tut!" or "Stop that!" in a vicious suppressed whisper. This was unsatisfying, but of course Marion did not understand my need of sympathy, and her mind was not in a favorable condition to consider questions relating to psychical research. I had seen her with Mrs. Taylor in the height of her rag-carpeting fever, but her delight in that was slight compared with the bliss of helping to plan Aunt Sophy's trousseau, and I soon realized that it was not a time when she would be likely to concern herself about either my present or future state.

But after the anniversary of our wedding day I determined that, as far as I was concerned, Uncle Philip might remain buried in oblivion; if he intruded himself into my thoughts I drove him forth again with contumely. Only thus could I preserve my self-respect, and at the same time feel that I was at all worthy to partake of the full measure of Aunt Sophy's generous affection. The feeling of sympathy that I had cherished for her deceased husband, and the half-reproachful tolerance of her projected second marriage, suddenly left me, and I not only transferred my sympathy to Mr. Fairman, but I began to hate the memory of Uncle Philip. I might not have gone as far as that if he had not persisted in haunting me after it had become impossible to harbor him without being disloyal to Aunt Sophy, but my conscience became clear when my change of sentiment could no longer be doubted. Had I still felt any mental reservation I could not have accepted her more than generous gift of a cheque for five thousand dollars which she insisted upon giving to each of us on the morning of our wedding anniversary, nor could we have refused without hurting her feelings.

"If you say another word," she declared, in response to our protests, "I'll be offended. It's a queer thing, indeed, if I'm not to be allowed to do what I like with my own money! You both know perfectly well that my future is provided for, and I'd rather have the pleasure of seeing you spend it now than put it away for you until after I'm gone, when you mightn't need it so much. You don't need it now? Of course not. Well then, you, Henry, if you can't think of anything else, might spend yours at the races; Marion can give a real nice ball with hers, if she wants to. Remember, I'd like each of you to spend your money without consulting the other, so that you'll feel perfectly free to use it in any way. Put it away for Paul? Not a bit of it. I'll provide for Paul—the dear little old-fashioned pet! Do you know, he came to me yesterday with that solemn expression of his, and said, 'Auntie, I love you far more than if father had killed all my chickens for you to——'"

"Oh, Auntie," interrupted Marion, with forced gayety, "I've intended for ever so long to tell you about——"

I cannot bear anyone else to confess my sins, and just as the rapidly ascending pitch of Marion's voice indicated the approach of the climax I recovered my presence of mind and drowned her announcement with a loud laugh. "Awfully good joke!" I exclaimed. "Last year Paul raised such a hullabaloo about eating his that I—ha, ha, ha!—had to buy all we used......at the market!"

I had expected her to be astonished, perhaps shocked; evidently she wasn't. My laugh stopped short as I saw her nod in knowing assent and smile complacently.

"Auntie," cried Marion—"you knew!"

"Well," she admitted, "I won't say I knew exactly, but I'll tell you how it happened. Perhaps you remember my saying last summer that Henry sometimes reminded me of your Uncle Philip?"

"Yes, you often said that he had uncle's smile and tone of voice."

"And then," she continued, "I noticed that it was always when I spoke about the chickens being so nice that I saw the resemblance, and I remembered that Philip, when he raised fancy fowls, used to bring me chickens every time he came from the farm, and I never suspected that he bought them at the market until one day we had a pair for dinner that couldn't have been less than ten years old."

"I—thought it—would spoil—your appetite if you knew," I began penitently.

Aunt Sophy laughed, then sobered again in tender reminiscence. "Just what poor Philip said," she mused, shaking her head. "He was a good judge of meat and poultry, but he didn't do as well as you, Henry. There isn't one man in a thousand who could choose as many tender chickens without being taken in. I never would have guessed they were bought ones if you hadn't come home one day with a pair of legs sticking out of the parcel under your arm. It was so good of you, Henry, to take all that trouble to spare that little darling's feelings. Not many fathers would have been so unselfish and considerate."

I said nothing. I can endure being admired for my virtues, but Aunt Sophy's commendation made me dumb with excess of emotion and joyous surprise. I had thought myself a pretty good sort of fellow, but the revelation of how much better I really was than I had seemed began to visibly affect me. I became so agitated that I could feel my nose beginning to twitch like a rabbit's. Marion and Aunt Sophy also looked hysterically inclined to fall into each other's arms in an ecstacy of forgiveness, so I hastily retreated to my study. There was a stovepipe hole in the partition between the two rooms through which detached and semi-detached words were wafted to my ears. Some people would have been self-conscious enough to move out of hearing or to cough artificially, but I do not shrink from the truth. I knew that I was being alluded to, but I knew also that there was no more danger of my being puffed up by self-conceit than of a proprietory stamp enriching the contents of the original package.

"He's......tender-hearted, Auntie......couldn't bear......Paul's chickens."

"......like your......Uncle Philip!"

"......wouldn't slap......mosquito." (No; I'd rather blow him from the mouth of a cannon. H. C.)

"Poor Philip......once stepped......toad......quite ill."

"Henry......so thoughtful......do anything......make me happy."

"Yes......kindest husband......so much sense......Philip different......wouldn't listen......about farm."

"Mr. Fairman......devoted......be happy......do anything."

"Oh, Marion!......think I'm......old goose."

I know when a conversation becomes confidential, and I quietly retreated without hearing anything further except some indistinct murmuring and happy sobs.

From the day my bank account was increased by the sum of five thousand dollars I made up my mind to spend it all, if necessary, in the purchase of Waydean. I exulted in the anticipation of Marion's delight and amazement on finding that I had preferred to do this in place of frittering it away in luxuries that we could do without, or investing it in stocks. I almost wished her birthday was at hand so that I could celebrate the day by making her a present of the place; then the idea of giving it to her on Aunt Sophy's wedding-day entered my mind, and this seemed such a capital plan that I decided to carry it out. Few men, I meditated, would have thought of such a graceful acknowledgment of Aunt Sophy's kindness, and I felt that Marion would be doubly pleased that I should think of adding to the joy of the eventful day. I could not help wondering what my wife intended doing with her money, but she didn't say anything to enlighten me, and I took good care not to allude to it, for fear she should question me in return. She made frequent trips to the city, carrying her little bank-book with an air of importance, but I could see nothing in the results of her shopping to indicate lavish expenditure. For instance, on one trip she bought a wire potato masher for seven cents, a spice cabinet for thirty cents, sixty cents worth of trimming for an old hat, and a pair of silk suspenders for me. The price mark on the latter was carefully obliterated, being a present, so I couldn't tell what they cost; anyway, it wouldn't have been proper to look at the price, if it had been legible. Evidently, at that rate of spending she would have enough money left to stock the farm when it became hers.

The real estate agent whom I consulted smiled loftily when I alluded to Peter Waydean's reputation for shrewdness and overreaching. "Don't concern yourself about that, Mr. Carton," he said. "We business men are accustomed to deal with these close-fisted farmers. They usually know the value of a farm as well as we do, but we know how to get them down to the bottom figure. We don't run after the owner and let him think we're anxious to buy; we approach him in the most incidental manner, dangling the bait, so to speak, until he's afraid someone else is going to snap it up. Now, the Waydean farm I take to be worth about thirty-five hundred, and you say the old man talks of selling, so if you allow a margin of a hundred or two I think I can secure it without any trouble."

The calm confidence of Mr. Brooks elated me; after telling him he might go as high as four thousand dollars, I went home, calculating on the way how I would spend the remaining thousand that I would still have to the good.

A week later Brooks shook his head as I entered his office. "We haven't quite got that deal through, Mr. Carton," he said. "The fact is that there seems to be a snag. Old man appears willing to sell—quite genial and all that, but when it comes to figures he fights shy; says he wants more time to think. To hurry him up I made a straight offer of four thousand. I could see that he was inclined to gobble it, but he held back, and when I went out yesterday I discovered why. Ever hear of that being a likely spot for oil or gas?"

"Good heavens, no!" I cried.

He smiled at my evident alarm. "I haven't either," he assured me, "but I thought perhaps you might have inside information. The idea came into my head when I found there was another party as keen to get the place as you."

"Another—party?" I gasped.

"I met Roper—of Bates and Roper, you know—coming out of the old man's house yesterday. I guess we each suspected the other of being on a private speculation, but after considerable sounding I found that he had been commissioned to buy the place. Then it struck me that you and this other party might have been quietly prospecting."

I shook my head. "I'm not after oil or gas wells or anything else in that line," I said decidedly. "I want the place for a quiet home. Who is this other—man?"

"I don't know. Roper didn't name his client, and of course I didn't name mine, but as far as I can make out we've both had similar instructions. It looks as if the old man were holding off to see who would make the highest bid. Now it isn't worth more than four thousand, but you can decide whether to bid higher or let it go."

If anything could have made me more eager it was the knowledge that someone else wanted Waydean. The thought of Marion's dismay if our home should be sold over our heads filled me with the determination to settle the matter at once. I told Brooks to go ahead to the extent of five thousand dollars.

"Well," he said, shaking his head with reluctance, "I'd rather lose my commission than see you give that, for the land isn't worth the money,—that is, for farming," he added, with a shrewd glance at me,—"but that's your look-out, and I'll do my best."