Chester, in the meantime, had made the acquaintance of a new resident in the neighborhood.

This was a somewhat singular individual, about thirty years of age, unmarried, and very rich. He was the son of a merchant in New York; but, in consequence of feeble health, together with certain eccentric notions with regard to society, he had resolved to become a gentleman farmer. He had purchased a valuable estate, lying not far from Mr. Royden's farm; and there he now lived with a trustworthy tenant, of whom he was learning the agricultural art.

Mr. Lemuel Kerchey was not easy to get acquainted with. The admirers of wealthy young men, in the neighborhood he had chosen, courted his society in vain. He was not timid, but exceedingly taciturn; he was a good listener, but as a talker he failed. His sociability was of the negative or passive sort. He could do justice to any good dinner to which he was invited, but somehow he could not be got acquainted with.

Mr. Kerchey sat alone in one of the most expensive pews in church; and every Sunday he looked directly at the minister during sermon and prayer, without once removing his eyes; and appeared just as intent gazing up at Sarah Royden's rosy face, in the choir, during the singing.

At noon Mr. Kerchey accepted an invitation to call at Deacon Dustan's, and partake of a lunch; on which occasion he met Chester. Being introduced to him, and learning that he was Sarah's brother, the bachelor made a mighty effort to talk; but he found it so difficult to express his ideas, that it was really painful to listen to him. However, Chester inclined to encourage the acquaintance, and spared him the trouble, by talking so fast himself, that even Jane Dustan, who was a famous chatterbox, could hardly get in a word.

Mr. Kerchey had driven to church alone in an elegant "buggy," and at the close of the afternoon services he invited Chester to ride with him. In return, the latter asked the bachelor to call at his father's house.

"I shall be—much—ah—pleased," said Mr. Kerchey, in his usual hard way of expressing himself, "to—to—ah—get better acquainted with—with—your people."

Mrs. Royden was preparing a sumptuous meal. Dinner and supper were condensed into one grand repast on Sundays. She liked to have the children come home with keen appetites, which gave their food so delightful a relish.

But Georgie, that afternoon, had burnt his fingers with a wire Sam was heating to perforate an elder-stalk for a fife; the baby was unwell and cross, and, by some unaccountable oversight, Mrs. Royden had let the spare-rib cook a little too hard and brown on one side. Everything had gone wrong with her that day, and when the family came home they found her flushed and fretful.

"Hepsy," said she, "do you change your dress as soon as you can, and help me set the table. Put on your apron, Sarah, the first thing. Why do you scream out so loud, Lizzie? You almost craze me!"

"Why, there comes Chester, in Mr. Kerchey's buggy! He is beckoning for Sam to go and open the gate, I guess."

Mrs. Royden was interested. She had a liking for wealthy young men, and was not displeased to see Mr. Kerchey drive into the yard. Hastily taking off an old tire, assumed to protect her dress, she bustled about to prepare herself to do credit to the family.

"Take him right into the parlor, Sarah," said she. "Willie, you may keep on your new clothes, if you will stay in the house. If you get into the dirt, I shall box your ears."

"I wonder what Chester invited that disagreeable old bach to stop for?" murmured Sarah, not so well pleased.

She received him politely, however. Mr. Kerchey, in her presence, was painfully stiff and incapable of words. His position would have been most embarrassing, had not Chester come to his relief. Afterwards Father Brighthopes made his appearance, and Sarah, begging to be excused, was seen no more until supper was announced.

Hepsy, Sam and the two younger children, stayed away from the table; the first from choice, the others from compulsion. The little boys especially were hungry, and made a great clamor because they could not sit down.

"Do let them come, wife!" said Mr. Royden. "There is plenty of room."

"May we?" asked Willie, with big grief in his voice, and big tears in his pleading eyes.

"No; you can wait just as well," replied Mrs. Royden. "If you tease or cry, remember what we do with little boys that will not be good. Hush, now!"

Notwithstanding this dark hint of the closet, Willie burst into tears, and lifted up his voice in lamentation.

"Hepsy!" cried Mrs. Royden, "take him into the kitchen."

Extreme severity transformed Willie's grief into rage. The cake which had been given him as a slight compensation and comfort for the martyrdom of waiting he threw upon the floor, and crushed beneath his feet.

Mrs. Royden started up, with fire in her eyes; but her husband stayed her.

"Who blames the boy?" he said. "He is hungry and cross. Come, Willie, bring your chair, and sit here by me."

The idea had, by this time, insinuated itself into Mr. Kerchey's brain that the children were made to wait out of deference to him. Mrs. Royden might consider him as one of the calumniated class of bachelors who detest the light of little blue eyes, and hate the prattle of innocent tongues. After one or two attempts to speak, he succeeded in articulating, "I—I think it would be—would be—ah—pleasant to have the children at the table."

"It is so annoying to be troubled with them when we have company!" murmured Mrs. Royden, relenting. "Well, Hepsy, bring their plates."

To see the happiness shining in the little fellow's eyes, which were as yet hardly dry, must have been sufficient to soften any grim old bachelor's heart. Mr. Kerchey struggled to express his gratification, in order not to be outdone by the cheerful and talkative clergyman; but he could only smile in an embarrassed manner upon the boys, and coin these tough and leaden syllables:

"I—rather—ah—like young people of this description."

Mrs. Royden was glad to have peace, for she saw how much the few unpleasant words which had been spoken vexed the proud and sensitive Chester, and was not desirous to have a family scene enacted in presence of the stranger.

The meal was a very cheerful one; Father Brighthopes being in one of his most delightful moods, and the family in good humor generally. Sarah manifested a large talent for quiet fun, in her mischievous endeavors to draw Mr. Kerchey into conversation.

The poor bachelor did his best, but he had never found the expression of ideas a more difficult and laborious task. In vain the kind-hearted Mr. Royden winked for Sarah to desist; in vain the good clergyman delicately filled up the painful pauses in Mr. Kerchey's remarks with natural observations, suggestive and helpful: Sarah persisted, and the guest was forced to talk.

When young ladies are suspected of being objects of attraction, they think they have a legitimate right to make fun of all newly-developed admirers. They may marry them next year; they perhaps look upon such an event as probable and desirable; but they will laugh about them to-day, alike regardless of the pain they inflict on their victims, should they perceive the ridicule, and careless of the distress of prudent mothers and friends.

Fortunately for Mr. Kerchey, his talent for observation was not remarkable. Phrenologically speaking, his perceptive faculties were small, as well as "language" and "concentration." He was rather flattered by Sarah's attentions than otherwise, and very readily accepted an invitation to prolong his call until evening.

"Would you—ah—would you like to—ride—a little ways—ah—after my pony?" he asked of Sarah, as they were sitting in the parlor, after supper.

"Thank you; but I hardly think I ought to go this evening," replied the ready girl.

What a relief it was to hear her silver-ringing voice, after Mr. Kerchey's painful efforts to speak!

"You—you are—you are not—partial to riding—perhaps?"

"Oh, I like it well; but a carriage seems monotonous. Horseback exercises for me!"

"You—like—you like it?"

"Passionately!" cried Sarah. "Oh, how I love a spirited, prancing, bounding pony!"

With his usual labor of enunciation, Mr. Kerchey said that, if she could inform him where a side-saddle was to be obtained, he would be "most—ah—happy" to give her his best horse to ride that evening. He was five minutes occupied in expressing so much.

"We have a ladies' saddle," said Sarah; "but I'd rather not go and ride on Sundays merely for pleasure."

"Ah! a thousand—ah—pardons!" rejoined Mr. Kerchey, conscious of having committed an indiscretion. "Some—some other time?"

Sarah excused his freedom, and gayly told him "almost any time;" and when he finally took his leave, declared that she had "got well rid of him, at last."

Meanwhile, Sam had decoyed Willie and Georgie into the orchard, and betrayed them into a game of ball. He made his lame foot a good excuse to sit upon the grass and enjoy all the "knocking" or "licks," while the boys threw and "chased."

"What are you about there, you rogue?" cried Mr. Royden, who had enough natural religious feeling to desire that his family should behave decorously on the Sabbath.

"Oh, nothing much," said Sam; "only playing ball a little."

"Do you know what day it is?"

"It an't Sunday after sundown, is it? You always let us play then."

"But the sun isn't down yet."

Mr. Royden pointed to the great luminary which still glowed amid the trees in the west.

"Golly! I thought it was!"

"What a story that is! The sun is nearly half an hour high. You could not help seeing it."

Sam looked with amazement, squinting across his ball-club, and dodging his head this way and that, as if to assure himself that it was no delusion.

"It an't down, is it?" he said, honestly. "I'm a little cross-eyed, I expect; and that's why I couldn't see it before."