"Morning, Direxia," said Will Jaquith. "How is Mr. Homer this morning? Better, I hope, than he was feeling yesterday."

Direxia Hawkes laid down her duster, and turned a troubled face to the visitor. "There!" she said, "I'm glad you've come, Willy. I can't do nothin' with that man. He ain't eat a thing this day, only just a mossel of toast and a sosser of hominy. It's foolishness, I will say. Mis' Tree may have had her ways,—I expect we all do, if all was known,—but I will say she eat her victuals and relished 'em. I don't see why or wherfore I was left if there ain't anybody ever going to eat anythin' in this house again; there! I don't."

"Oh, Dexy, don't be foolish!" said Will. "I'm coming out this minute to get a doughnut. You will have to live till my wife learns to make as good ones as yours, and that will be some time. Just wait till I see Mr. Homer a minute, and then I'll come out and make love to you, you dear old thing."

Direxia brightened. "Don't she make 'em good?" she asked. "Well, she's young yet. I dono as I had just the hang of 'em when I was her age. Doughnuts is a thing you've got to have the hang of, I've always said."

She retired, beaming, to heap goodies on fine china dishes for her darling, and Jaquith turned his steps toward "the Captain's room." This was a small room looking out over the harbor, and had been Captain Tree's special sanctum. It was fitted like a ship's cabin, with lockers and swinging shelves, all in teak-wood and brass. On the walls were ranged telescopes, spyglasses, and speaking-trumpets of all sizes and varieties, and over the desk hung a picture of the good ship Marcia D. of Quahaug, Ethan Tree, master. This picture was a triumph of Japanese embroidery, having been done in colored silks while the ship lay in the harbor of Nagasaki, and, next to his wife's miniature, it was the Captain's most precious possession. The year after it was made, the Marcia D. had gone down in a typhoon in the South Seas: all hands were saved, to be tossed about for three days on a life-raft, and then tossed ashore on a wild island. The bright shells which framed the picture had been picked up by his wife on the shore, where she watched all day for a coming sail, while master and mariners caught fish and turtles, and gathered strange fruits for her, their lady and their queen. Ethan Tree used to say that that week on the island was one of the best in his life, even though he had lost his ship.

"True blue!" he would murmur, looking up at the picture. "She showed her colors that time. She never flinched, little Marcia. Her baby coming, and not a woman or a doctor within a thousand miles; but she never flinched. Only her cheeks flew the flag and her eyes signalled, when I sung out, 'Sail ho!' True blue, little wife!"

Now, instead of the stalwart figure of Captain Tree, the slender form of Mr. Homer Hollopeter occupied, but did not fill, the chair beneath the picture. The little gentleman sat huddled disconsolately over some papers, and it was a melancholy face that he lifted in response to Will Jaquith's cheery "How are you, Mr. Homer? pretty well this morning?"

Mr. Homer sighed. "I thank you, William, I thank you!" he said. "My corporal envelope is, I am obliged to you, robust;—a—vigorous;—a—exempt for the moment from the ills that flesh is heir to—Shakespeare; we perceive that even our greatest did not disdain upon occasion to conclude a phrase with a preposition, though the practice is one generally reprehended;—a—condemned;—a—denied the sanction of the critics of our own day. I trust you find yourself in health and spirits, William?"

"Capital!" said Will. "Lily and I and the boy, all as well as can be. I have brought the mail, Mr. Homer. I thought you might not feel like coming down this morning, as you were not well yesterday."

As he spoke, he laid the mail-bag on the table, and, seating himself, proceeded to unlock it. Mr. Homer's eyes brightened in spite of himself; his face grew animated. "That was kind of you, William!" he said. "That was—a—considerate; that was—a—benevolent. I am greatly obliged to you; greatly obliged to you."

He opened the bag with trembling fingers, and began to sort the letters it contained.

"The occupation of twenty years," he continued, plaintively, "is not to be relinquished lightly. If I did not feel that I was leaving it in worthy hands, I—ah! here is a letter for Susan Jennings, from her son. There is an enclosure, William. Probably Jacob is doing better, and is sending his mother a little money. She is a worthy woman, a worthy woman; I rejoice for Susan. A dutiful son, sir, is an oasis in the desert; a—fountain in a sandy place; a—a number of gratifying things which I cannot at this moment name. You were a dutiful son, William. That must be an unspeakable satisfaction to you, now that your sainted mother has—a—departed; has—a—gone from us; has—a—ascended on wings of light to the empyrean. You were a dutiful son, sir."

William Jaquith colored high. "Not always, Mr. Homer," he said. "In thinking of these late happy years, you must not forget the others that went before. I should be dead, or a castaway, this day, but for Mrs. Tree."

"I rejoice at it, my dear sir!" cried Mr. Homer, his gentle eyes kindling. "That is to say—I would not wish to be understood as—but I am sure you apprehend me, William. I would say that my respect, my—a—reverence, my—a—affection and admiration for my cousin Marcia, sir, are enhanced a hundredfold by the knowledge of what she did for you. It cheers me, sir; it—a—invigorates me; it—a—causes a bud of spring to blow in a bosom which—a—was sealed, as I may say, with ice of—a—in short, with ice:—a—what is that pink envelope, William?"

"For Joe Breck, sir; from S. E. Willow, South Verona. That is Sophy, I suppose?"

Mr. Homer quivered with pleasure as he took the long, slim note in his hand. "This is from Sophia!" he said. "Sophia Willow is a sweet creature, William;—a—dewy flower, as the lamented Keats has it; a—milk-white lamb that bleats for man's protection, as he also observes. And Joseph Breck, sir, is a worthy youth. He has 'sighed and looked and sighed again' (Dryden, sir! a great poet, though unduly influenced by the age in which he lived) these two years past, I have had reason to think. Of late his letters to Sophia have been more frequent; there was one only yesterday, if you remember, a bulky one, probably containing—a—remarks of a tender nature;—a—outpourings of an ardent description. This is the response. Its rosy hue leads me to hope that it is a favorable one, William. The shape, too: a square envelope has always something of self-assertion about it; but this long, slender, graceful note has in its very appearance something—a—yielding; something—a—acquiescent; something—a—indicative of the budding of the tender passion. I augur happily from the aspect of this note. A—I trust your sentiments accord with mine, William?"

"Yes, indeed, sir," said Will, heartily. "I am sure Sophy would not have the heart to say 'no' on such pretty paper as this; not that I think she ever meant to. But here is a letter for you, Mr. Homer, and this is a long envelope, too, only it is green instead of pink. Postmark Bexley."

Mr. Homer started. "Not Bexley, William!" he said, nervously. "I trust you are mistaken; look again, if you will be so good. I cannot conceive why I should receive a letter from Bexley."

"I'm sorry, sir," replied Will, "but Bexley it is. Would you like me to open it, Mr. Homer?"

Mr. Homer cast a glance of aversion at the green envelope; it certainly was somewhat vivid in tint, and was rather liberally than delicately scented.

"I should be glad if you would do so, William," he said. "I seem to feel—a—less vigorous than when you first came in. I should be obliged if you would look it over, William."

With a glance wherein compassion struggled with amusement, Jaquith opened the letter and glanced through it.

"From Mrs. Pryor," he said, briefly.

Mr. Homer moved uneasily in his seat. "I—a—apprehended as much," he said. "Go on, William."

With another compassionate twinkle, Will complied, and read as follows:

"'My dearest Homer:'"

Mr. Homer winced, and wiped his forehead nervously.

"'Ever since that dreadful day which I will not name, I have been prostrated with grief and mortification; grief on my own account; mortification—I blush to say it—for the sake of one whose present condition seals my lips. Need I say that I allude to Aunt Marcia? For some time I felt that all relations between me and Elmerton must be closed forever.'"

Mr. Homer looked up.

"'But in the end a more Christian spirit prevailed.'"

Mr. Homer looked down again.

"'I have conquered my pride; you can imagine what a struggle it was, for you know what the Darracott pride is, though the Hollopeters only intermarried with us in your grandfather's time. I came out of the struggle a physical wreck.'"

Mr. Homer looked up once more.

"'But with me, as all who know me are aware, flesh is nothing, spirit is all! I have resolved to let bygones be bygones, Homer; to put all this sad and shocking business behind me, and strive to forget that it ever existed. In this spirit, my dear cousin, I write to offer you the affection of a sister.'"

Mr. Homer uttered a hollow groan, and dropped his head in his hands.

"'We are both alone, Homer. My girls are married; and, though the greater portion of my heart is in the grave with Mr. Pryor, enough of it yet breathes to keep a warm corner for you, my nearest living relative. The extraordinary and iniquitous document, which I will not further describe, has laid a heavy burden on your shoulders; and I feel it a duty to give you all the aid in my power in the work of arranging and classifying the collection of worldly trifles by which our late unhappy relative set such store. I, Homer, have outgrown such matters. It is for Aunt Marcia's own sake that I feel, as you must, the necessity of something like an equitable arrangement in regard to all this trumpery. My duty to my children obliges me, much against my will, to protest against Vesta Strong's having all the lace and jewelry. If she had any sense of decency, she would not accept what was clearly the raving of senile dementia. As to the grasping and mercenary spirit shown by her and her husband, I say nothing: let their consciences deal with them, if they own such an article; I am above it.

"'Let me know, dearest Homer, when you are ready for me, and I will come to you on the instant. I will bring an excellent maidservant to replace the old creature, whom I trust you have dismissed ere this. If not, let me urge you strongly to get rid of her at once. She is not a fit person to have charge of you. I feel that the sooner I come to you the better; let us lose no time, so pray write at once, dear Homer, to

"'Your loving cousin,
"'Maria Darracott Pryor.'"

Will's eyes were twinkling as he folded up the letter, but they were very tender as he turned them on Mr. Homer, sitting crumpled like a withered leaf in his chair.

"Cheer up, Mr. Homer!" said the young postmaster. "Look up, my dear friend. You don't suppose we are going to let her come, do you? She shall not put her foot inside the door, I promise you."

Mr. Homer groaned again. "She will come, William!" he said. "I feel it; I know it. She will come, and she will stay. I have not strength to resist her. Oh, Cousin Marcia, Cousin Marcia, you little thought what you were doing when you laid this burden on me. I don't think I can bear it, William! I will go away; I will leave the village. I do—not—think—I can bear it!"

"Oh, I think you can, sir," said Will Jaquith. "Consider the wishes of our dear old friend. Think how hard it would be for us all to see strangers in this house, so full of memories of her. I hope that after awhile you can grow to feel at home, and to be happy here. Then, too, the work will be of a kind that will interest you. The arrangement of all these rare and curious objects, the formation of a museum,—why, Mr. Homer, you are made for the work, and the work for you. Cheer up, my good friend!"

Mr. Homer sighed heavily. "I thank you, William," he said. "I thank you. You are always sympathetic and comforting to me. Your words are—are as balm; as—as dew upon Hermon; as—oil which runs down—" The poor gentleman broke off, and looked piteously at his companion. "My metaphor misleads me," he said. "It is often the case at the present time. I—I am apprehensive that my mind is not what it was; that I am in danger of loss of the intellect; of the—a—power of thought; of the—a—chair, where Reason sits—or in happier days did sit—enthroned. I am a wreck, William, a wreck."

He sighed again, hesitated, and went on. "All you say is true, my friend, and I could, I think, find much interest and even inspiration in the task entrusted to me by my venerated and deplored relative, if—I could do it in my own way: but—I am hampered, sir. I am—trammelled; I am—a—set upon behind and before. The ladies—a—in short—Hark! what is that?"

He started nervously as a knock was heard at the front door, and clutched Will Jaquith's coat with a feverish grasp. "Don't leave me, William!" he cried. "On no account leave me! It is a woman. I—I—cannot be left alone with them. They come about me—like locusts, William! Listen!"

A wheezy, unctuous voice was heard:

"Mr. Hollopeter feelin' any better to-day?"

"No, he ain't," came the reply in Direxia's crisp accents.

"I'm real sorry. I've brought him a little relish to eat with his supper. I made it myself, and it's nourishin' and palatable. Shall I take it in to him?"

"I'll take it," said Direxia. "He won't tetch it, I can tell you that."

"You never can tell," said the voice. "Sometimes a new hand will give victuals a freshness. Besides, Homer must be real lonesome. I'm comin' in to set with him a spell, and maybe read him a chapter. I've ben through affliction myself, Direxia, well you know, and the sufferin' seeks their like. You let me in now! You ain't no right to keep me out, Direxia Hawkes. This ain't your house, and I'll take no sarce from you, so now I tell you."

Mr. Homer started from his seat with a wild look, but Will Jaquith laid a quiet hand on his shoulder.

"Sit still, sir!" he said. "I'll take charge of this one, and Tommy will be back soon. Cheer up, Mr. Homer!"

He passed out. Mr. Homer, listening feverishly, heard a few words spoken in a cheerful, decided voice; then the door closed. Mr. Homer drew a long breath, but started again nervously as Direxia's brown head popped in at the door.

"Mis' Weight brung some stuff," she said, briefly. "Looks like skim-milk blue-monge bet up with tapioky. Want it?"

"No!" cried Mr. Homer, with something as near a snarl as his gentle voice could compass.

"Well, you needn't take my head off!" said Direxia. "I didn't make it. I'll give it to the parrot; he's rugged."

She vanished, and Mr. Homer's head dropped in his hands again.

"Like locusts!" he murmured. "Like locusts! Oh, Cousin Marcia, how could you?"