University of Virginia Library

22. CHAPTER XXII.
IN WHICH JIM GETS MARRIED, THE NEW HOTEL RECEIVES ITS
MISTRESS, AND BENEDICT CONFERS A POWER OF ATTORNEY.

There was great commotion in the little Sevenoaks tavern.
It was Jim's wedding morning, and on the previous evening
there had been a sufficient number of arrivals to fill every
room. Mr. and Mrs. Balfour, with the two boys, had come
in in the evening stage; Jim and Mr. Benedict had arrived
from Number Nine. Friends of Miss Butterworth from adjoining
towns had come, so as to be ready for the ceremony
of the morning. Villagers had thronged the noisy bar-room
until midnight, scanning and discussing the strangers, and
speculating upon the event which had called them together.
Jim had moved among them, smiling, and returning their
good-natured badinage with imperturbable coolness, so far as
appearances went, though he acknowledged to Mr. Balfour
that he felt very much as he did about his first moose.

“I took a good aim,” said he, “restin' acrost a stump, but
the stump was oneasy like; an' then I blazed away, an' when
I obsarved the moose sprawlin', I was twenty feet up a tree,
with my gun in the snow; an' if they don't find me settin' on
the parson's chimbly about nine o'clock to-morrer mornin',
it won't be on account o' my not bein' skeered.”

But the wedding morning had arrived. Jim had had an
uneasy night, with imperfect sleep and preposterous dreams.
He had been pursuing game. Sometimes it was a bear that
attracted his chase, sometimes it was a deer, sometimes it was
a moose, but all the time it was Miss Butterworth, flying and
looking back, with robes and ribbons vanishing among the

distant trees, until he shot and killed her, and then he woke
in a great convulsion of despair, to hear the singing of the
early birds, and to the realization of the fact that his days of
bachelor life were counted.

Mr. Benedict, with his restored boy in his arms, occupied
the room next to his, a door opening between them. Both
were awake, and were busy with their whispered confidences,
when they became aware that Jim was roused and on his feet.
In a huge bundle on the table lay Jim's wedding garments,
which he eyed from time to time as he busied himself at his
bath.

`Won't ye be a purty bird with them feathers on! This
makin' crows into bobolinks'll do for oncet, but, my! won't
them things spin when I git into the woods agin?”

Benedict and Harry knew Jim's habit, and the measure of
excitement that was upon him, and lay still, expecting to be
amused by his soliloquies. Soon they heard him say:

“Oh, lay down, lay down, lay down, ye misable old
mop!”

It was an expression of impatience and disgust.

“What's the matter, Jim?” Mr. Benedict called.

“Here's my har,” responded Jim, “actin' as if it was a
piece o' woods or a hay-lot, an' there ain't no lodgin' it with
nothin' short of a harricane. I've a good mind to git it
shingled and san'-papered.”

Then, shifting his address to the object of his care and
anxiety, he went on:

“Oh, stick up, stick up, if you want to! Don't lay down
on my 'count. P'rhaps ye want to see what's goin' on.
P'rhaps ye're goin' to stand up with me. P'rhaps ye want to
skeer somebody's hosses. If I didn't look no better nor you,
I sh'd want to lay low; an', if I'd'a slep as poor as ye did last
night, I'd lop down in the fust bed o' bear's grease I could
find. Hain't ye got no manners?”

This was too much for Harry, who, in his happy mood,
burst into the merriest laughter.

This furnished Jim with just the apology he wanted for a
frolic, and rushing into the adjoining bed-room, he pulled
Harry from his bed, seated him on the top of his head, and
marched with him struggling and laughing about the room.
After he had performed sundry acrobatic feats with him, he
carried him back to his bed. Then he returned to his room,
and entered seriously upon the task of arraying himself in his
wedding attire. To get on his collar and neck-tie properly,
he was obliged to call for Mr. Benedict's assistance.

Jim was already getting red in the face.

“What on arth folks want to tie theirselves up in this way
for in hot weather, is more nor I know,” he said. “How do
ye s'pose them Mormons live, as is doin' this thing every
three days?”

Jim asked this question with his nose in the air, patiently
waiting the result of Mr. Benedict's manipulations at his
throat. When he could speak again, he added:

“I vow, if I was doin' a big business in this line, I'd git
some tin things, an' have 'em soddered on, an' sleep in 'em.”

This sent Harry into another giggle, and, with many soliloquies
and much merriment, the dressing in both rooms went
on, until, in Jim's room, all became still. When Benedict
and his boy had completed their toilet, they looked in upon
Jim, and found him dressed and seated on his trunk.

“Good morning, Mr. Fenton,” said Benedict, cheerfully.

Jim, who had been in deep thought, looked up, and said:

“Do ye know that that don't seem so queer to me as it
used to? It seems all right fur pertickler friends to call me
Jim, but clo'es is what puts the Mister into a man. I felt it
comin' when I looked into the glass. Says I to myself: `Jim,
that's Mr. Fenton as is now afore ye. Look at 'im sharp,
so that, if so be ye ever seen 'im agin' ye'll know 'im.' I
never knowed exactly where the Mister come from afore. Ye
have to be measured for't. A pair o' shears, an' a needle an'
thread, an' a hot goose is what changes a man into a Mister.
It's a nice thing to find out, but it's uncomf'table. It ain't

so bad as it would be if ye couldn't strip it off when ye git
tired on't, an' it's a good thing to know.”

“Do clothes make Belcher a gentleman?” inquired Mr.
Benedict.

“Well, it's what makes him a Mister, any way. When ye
git his clo'es off thar ain't nothin' left of 'im. Dress 'im up
in my old clo'es, as has got tar enough on 'em to paint a
boat, an' there wouldn't be enough man in 'im to speak to.”

How long Jim would have indulged in his philosophy of
the power of dress had he not been disturbed will never be
known, for at this moment Mr. Balfour knocked at his door,
and was admitted. Sam Yates followed, and both looked Jim
over and pronounced him perfect. Even these familiar friends
felt the power of dress, and treated Jim in a way to which he
had been unaccustomed. The stalwart figure, developed in
every muscle, and becomingly draped, was well calculated to
excite their admiration. The refractory hair which had given
its possessor so much trouble, simply made his head impressive
and picturesque. There was a man before them—humane,
brave, bright, original. All he wanted was culture. Physical
and mental endowments were in excess, and the two men,
trained in the schools, had learned to love—almost to revere
him. Until he spoke, they did not feel at home with him in
his new disguise.

They all descended to breakfast together. Jim was quiet
under the feeling that his clothes were an unnatural expression
of himself, and that his words would make them a mockery.
He was awed, too, by the presence of Mrs. Balfour, who met
him at the table for the first time in her life. The sharp-eyed,
smiling Yankee girls who waited at the meal, were very much
devoted to Jim, who was ashamed to receive so much attention.
On the whole, it was the most uncomfortable breakfast
he had ever eaten, but his eyes were quick to see all that was
done, for he was about to open a hotel, and wished particularly
to learn the details of the table service.

There was great excitement, too, at the parsonage that

morning. The Misses Snow were stirred by the romance of
the occasion. They had little enough of this element in their
lives, and were disposed to make the most of it when it came.
The eldest had been invited to accompany the bride to Number
Nine, and spend a few weeks with her there. As this was
accounted a great privilege by the two younger sisters, they
quietly shelved her, and told her that they were to have their
own way at home; so Miss Snow became ornamental and
critical. Miss Butterworth had spent the night with her, and
they had talked like a pair of school-girls until the small hours
of the morning. The two younger girls had slept together,
and discussed at length the duties of their respective offices.
One was to do the bride's hair and act as the general supervisor
of her dress, the other was to arrange the flowers and
take care of the guests. Miss Butterworth's hair was not
beautiful, and how it was to be made the most of was the great
question that agitated the hair-dresser. All the possibilities
of braid and plait and curl were canvassed. If she only had
a switch, a great triumph could be achieved, but she had
none, and, what was worse, would have none. A neighbor
had sent in a potted white rose, full of buds and bloom, and
over this the sisters quarreled. The hair would not be complete
without the roses, and the table would look “shameful”
if the pot did not stand upon it, unshorn of a charm. The
hair-dresser proposed that the stems which she was bent on
despoiling should have some artificial roses tied to them, but
the disgraceful project was rejected with scorn. They wrangled
over the dear little rose-bush and its burden until they
went to sleep—the one to dream that Miss Butterworth had
risen in the morning with a new head of hair that reached to
her knee, in whose luxuriance she could revel with interminable
delight, and the other that the house was filled with roses;
that they sprouted out of the walls, fluttered with beads of
dew against the windows, strewed the floor, and filled the air
with odor.

Miss Butterworth was not to step out of the room—not be

seen by any mortal eye—until she should come forth as a
bride. Miss Snow was summarily expelled from the apartment,
and only permitted to bring in Miss Butterworth's
breakfast, while her self-appointed lady's maid did her hair,
and draped her in her new gray silk.

“Make just as big a fool of me, my dear, as you choose,”
said the prospective bride to the fussy little girl who fluttered
about her. “It's only for a day, and I don't care.”

Such patient manipulation, such sudden retirings for the
study of effects, such delicious little experiments with a curl,
such shifting of hair-pins, such dainty adjustments of ruffles
and frills as were indulged in in that little room can only be
imagined by the sex familiar with them. And then, in the
midst of it all, came a scream of delight that stopped everything.
Mrs. Balfour had sent in a great box full of the most
exquisite flowers, which she had brought all the way from the
city. The youngest Miss Snow was wild with her new wealth,
and there were roses for Miss Butterworth's hair, and her
throat, and a bouquet for her hand. And after this came
wonderful accessions to the refreshment table. Cake, with
Miss Butterworth's initials; tarts, marked “Number Nine,”
and Charlotte de Russe, with a “B” and an “F” hopelessly
twisted together in a monogram. The most excited exclamations
reached Miss Butterworth's ears in her imprisonment:

“Goodness, gracious me!”

“If there isn't another cake as big as a flour barrel!”

“Tell your mother she's an angel. She's coming down to
help us eat it, I hope.”

“Just look at this basket of little cakes! I was saying to
mother this minute that that was all we wanted.”

So the good things came, and the cheerful givers went, and
Miss Butterworth took an occasional sip at her coffee, with a
huge napkin at her throat, and tears in her eyes, not drawn
forth by the delicate tortures in progress upon her person.
She thought of her weary years of service, her watchings by
sick-beds, her ministry to the poor, her long loneliness, and

acknowledged to herself that her reward had come. To be
so loved and petted, and cared for, and waited upon, was
payment for every sacrifice and every service, and she felt
that she and the world were at quits.

Before the finishing touches to her toilet were given, there
was a tumult at the door. She could hear new voices. The
guests were arriving. She heard laughter and merry greetings;
and still they poured in, as if they had come in a procession.
Then there was a hush, followed by the sound of a carriage,
the letting down of steps, and a universal murmur. Jim had
arrived, with Mr. and Mrs. Balfour and the boys. They had
had great difficulty in getting him into the one hackney
coach which the village possessed, on account of his wish to
ride with the driver, “a feller as he knowed;” but he was
overruled by Mrs. Balfour, who, on alighting, took his arm.
He came up the garden walk, smiling in the faces and eyes
of those gathered around the door and clustered at the
windows. In his wedding dress, he was the best figure in the
crowd, and many were the exclamations of feminine admiration.

On entering the door, he looked about him, saw the welldressed
and expectant company, the dainty baskets of flowers,
the bountifully loaded table in the little dining-room, all the
preparations for his day of happiness, but he saw nowhere the
person who gave to him the significance of the occasion.

Mr. Snow greeted him cordially, and introduced him to
those who stood near.

“Well, parson, where's the little woman?” he said, at last,
in a voice so loud that all heard the startling question. Miss
Butterworth heard him, and laughed.

“Just hear him!” she exclaimed to the busy girl,
whose work was now hurrying to a close. “If he doesn't astonish
them before he gets through, I shall be mistaken. I
do think it's the most ridiculous thing. Now isn't it! The
idea!”

Miss Snow, in the general character of outside manager and

future companion of the bride, hurried to Jim's side at once,
and said:

“Oh, Mr. Fenton!”

“Jest call me Jim.”

“No, no, I won't. Now, Mr. Fenton, really! you can't
see her until she is ready!”

“Oh can't I!” and Jim smiled.

Miss Snow had the impression, prevalent among women,
that a bridegroom has no rights so long as they can keep him
out of them, and that it is their privilege to fight him up to
the last moment.

“Now, really, Mr. Fenton, you must be patient,” she said,
in a whisper. “She is quite delicate this morning, and she's
going to look so pretty that you'll hardly know her.”

“Well,” said Jim, “if you've got a ticket into the place
whar she's stoppin', tell her that kingdom-come is here an'
waitin'.”

A ripple of laughter went around the circle, and Jim, finding
the room getting a little close, beckoned Mr. Snow out of
the doors. Taking him aside and removing his hat, he said:

“Parson, do you see my har?”

“I do,” responded the minister, good-naturedly.

“That riz last night,” said Jim, solemnly.

“Is it possible?” and Mr. Snow looked at the intractable
pile with genuine concern.

“Yes, riz in a dream. I thought I'd shot 'er. I was
follerin' 'er all night. Sometimes she was one thing, an'
sometimes she was another, but I drew a bead on 'er, an'
down she went, an' up come my har quicker nor lightnin'.
I don't s'pose it looks very purty, but I can't help it.”

“Have you tried anything on it?” inquired Mr. Snow
with a puzzled look.

“Yis, everything but a hot flat iron, an' I'm a little afraid
o' that. If wust comes to wust, it'll have to be did, though.
It may warm up my old brains a little, but if my har is well
sprinkled, and the thing is handled lively, it'll pay for tryin'.”

The perfect candor and coolness of Jim's manner were too
much for the unsuspicious spirit of the minister, who thought
it all very strange. He had heard of such things, but this
was the first instance he had ever seen.

“Parson,” said Jim, changing the topic, “what's the
damage for the sort o' thing ye're drivin' at this mornin'?”

“The what?”

“The damage—what's the—well—damage? What do ye
consider a fa'r price?”

“Do you mean the marriage fee?”

“Yes, I guess that's what ye call it.”

“The law allows us two dollars, but you will permit me to
perform the ceremony for nothing. It's a labor of love,
Mr. Fenton. We are all very much interested in Miss Butterworth,
as you see.”

“Well, I'm a little interested in 'er myself, an' I'm a
goin' to pay for the splice. Jest tuck that X into yer jacket,
an' tell yer neighbors as ye've seen a man as was five times
better nor the law.”

“You are very generous.”

“No; I know what business is, though. Ye have to get
somethin' to square the buryins an' baptizins with. When a
man has a weddin', he'd better pay the whole thing in a
lump. Parsons have to live, but how the devil they do it in
Sevenoaks is more nor I know.”

“Mr. Fenton! excuse me!” said Mr. Snow, coloring,
“but I am not accustomed to hearing language of that kind.”

“No, I s'pose not,” said Jim, who saw too late that he had
made a mistake. “Your sort o' folks knuckle to the devil
more nor I do. A good bein' I take to, but a bad bein' I'm
careless with; an' I don't make no more o' slingin' his name
round nor I do kickin' an old boot.”

Mr. Snow was obliged to laugh, and half a dozen others,
who had gathered about them, joined in a merry chorus.

Then Miss Snow came out and whispered to her father, and
gave a roguish glance at Jim. At this time the house was full,

the little yard was full, and there was a crowd of boys at the
gate. Mr. Snow took Jim by the arm and led him in. They
pressed through the crowd at the door, Miss Snow making
way for them, and so, in a sort of triumphal progress, they
went through the room, and disappeared in the apartment
where “the little woman,” flushed and expectant, waited their
arrival.

It would be hard to tell which was the more surprised as
they were confronted by the meeting. Dress had wrought its
miracle upon both of them, and they hardly knew each other.

“Well, little woman, how fare ye?” said Jim, and he advanced,
and took her cheeks tenderly between his rough
hands, and kissed her.

“Oh, don't! Mr. Fenton! You'll muss her hair!” exclaimed
the nervous little lady's maid of the morning, dancing
about the object of her delightful toils and anxieties, and readjusting
a rose, and pulling out the fold of a ruffle.

“A purty job ye've made on't! The little woman 'll never
look so nice again,” said Jim.

“Perhaps I shall—when I'm married again,” said Miss
Butterworth, looking up into Jim's eyes, and laughing.

“Now, ain't that sassy!” exclaimed Jim, in a burst of admiration.
“That's what took me the first time I seen 'er.”

Then Miss Snow Number Two came in, and said it really
was time for the ceremony to begin. Such a job as she had
had in seating people!

Oh, the mysteries of that little room! How the people outside
wondered what was going on there! How the girls inside
rejoiced in their official privileges!

Miss Snow took Jim by the button-hole:

“Mr. Fenton, you must take Miss Butterworth on your arm,
you know, and lead her in front of the sofa, and turn around,
and face father, and then do just what he tells you, and remember
that there's nothing for you to say:”

The truth was, that they were all afraid that Jim would not
be able to hold his tongue.

“Are we all ready?” inquired Mr. Snow, in a pleasant,
official tone.

All were ready, and then Mr. Snow, going out with a book
in his hand, was followed by Jim and his bride, the little procession
being completed by the three Misses Snow, who, with
a great deal of care upon their faces, slipped out of the door,
one after another, like three white doves from a window. Mr.
Snow took his position, the pair wheeled and faced him, and
the three Misses Snow supported Miss Butterworth as impromptu
bridesmaids. It was an impressive tableau, and when
the good pastor said: “Let us pray,” and raised his thin,
white hands, a painter in search of a subject could have asked
for nothing better.

When, at the close of his prayer, the pastor inquired if there
were any known obstacles to the union of the pair before him
in the bonds of holy matrimony, and bade all objectors to
speak then, or forever after hold their peace, Jim looked
around with a defiant air, as if he would like to see the man
who dared to respond to the call. No one did respond, and
the ceremony proceeded.

“James,” said Mr. Snow.

“Jest call me—”

Miss Butterworth pinched Jim's arm, and he recalled
Miss Snow's injunction in time to arrest his sentence in mid-passage.

“James,” the pastor repeated, and then went on to ask
him, in accordance with the simple form of his sect, whether
he took the woman whom he was holding by the hand to be
his lawful and wedded wife, to be loved and cherished in
sickness and health, in prosperity and adversity, cleaving to
her, and to her only.

“Parson,” said Jim, “that's jest what I'm here for.”

There would have been a titter if any other man had said
it, but it was so strong and earnest, and so much in character,
that hardly a smile crossed a face that fronted him.

Then “Keziah” was questioned in the usual form, and

bowed her response, and Jim and the little woman were declared
to be one. “What God hath joined together, let not
man put asunder.”

And then Mr. Snow raised his white hands again, and pronounced
a formal benediction. There was a moment of
awkwardness, but soon the pastor advanced with his congratulations,
and Mrs. Snow came up, and the three Misses Snow,
and the Balfours, and the neighbors; and there were kisses
and hand-shakings, and good wishes. Jim beamed around
upon the fluttering and chattering groups like a great, good-natured
mastiff upon a playful collection of silken spaniels and
smart terriers. It was the proudest moment of his life. Even
when standing on the cupola of his hotel, surveying his
achievements, and counting his possessions, he had never felt
the thrill which moved him then. The little woman was his,
and his forever. His manhood had received the highest public
recognition, and he was as happy as if it had been the imposition
of a crown.

“Ye made purty solemn business on't, Parson,” said Jim.

“It's a very important step, Mr. Fenton,” responded the
clergyman.

“Step!” exclaimed Jim. “That's no name for't; it's a
whole trip. But I sh'll do it. When I said it I meaned it.
I sh'll take care o' the little woman, and atween you an' I,
Parson, it's about the best thing as a man can do. Takin'
care of a woman is the nateral thing for a man, an' no man
ain't much as doesn't do it, and glad o' the job.”

The capacity of a country assembly for cakes, pies, and
lemonade, is something quite unique, especially at a morning
festival. If the table groaned at the beginning, it sighed at
the close. The abundance that asserted itself in piles of dainties
was left a wreck. It faded away like a bank of snow
before a drift of southern vapor. Jim, foraging among the
solids, found a mince pie, to which he devoted himself.

“This is the sort o' thing as will stan' by a man in trouble,”
said he, with a huge piece in his hand.

Then, with a basket of cake, he vanished from the house,
and distributed his burden among the boys at the gate.

“Boys, I know ye're hungry, 'cause ye've left yer breakfast
on yer faces. Now git this in afore it rains.”

The boys did not stand on the order of the service, but
helped themselves greedily, and left his basket empty in a
twinkling.

“It beats all nater,” said Jim, looking at them sympathetically,
“how much boys can put down when they try. If
the facks could be knowed, without cuttin' into 'em, I'd be
willin' to bet somethin' that their legs is holler.”

While Jim was absent, the bride's health was drunk in a
glass of lemonade, and when he returned, his own health was
proposed, and Jim seemed to feel that something was expected
of him.

“My good frens,” said he, “I'm much obleeged to ye.
Ye couldn't 'a' treated me better if I'd 'a' been the president
of this country. I ain't used to yer ways, but I know when
I'm treated well, an' when the little woman is treated well.
I'm obleeged to ye on her 'count. I'm a goin' to take 'er
into the woods, an' take care on 'er. We are goin' to keep a
hotel—me and the little woman—an' if so be as any of ye is
took sick by overloadin' with cookies 'arly in the day, or
bein' thinned out with lemonade, ye can come into the
woods, an' I'll send ye back happy.”

There was a clapping of hands and a flutter of handkerchiefs,
and a merry chorus of laughter, and then two vehicles
drove up to the door. The bride bade a tearful farewell to
her multitude of friends, and poured out her thanks to the
minister's family, and in twenty minutes thereafter, two happy
loads of passengers went pounding over the bridge, and off
up the hill on the way to Number Nine. The horses were
strong, the morning was perfect, and Jim was in possession
of his bride. They, with Miss Snow, occupied one carriage,
while Mr. Benedict and the Balfours filled the other. Not a
member of the company started homeward until the bridal

party was seen climbing the hill in the distance, but waited,
commenting upon the great event of the morning, and speculating
upon the future of the pair whose marriage they had
witnessed. There was not a woman in the crowd who did
not believe in Jim; and all were glad that the little tailoress
had reached so pleasant and stimulating a change in her life.

When the voyagers had passed beyond the scattered farm-houses
into the lonely country, Jim, with his wife's help, released
himself from the collar and cravat that tormented him,
and once more breathed freely. On they sped, shouting to
one another from carriage to carriage, and Mike Conlin's
humble house was reached in a two hours' drive. There was
chaffing at the door and romping among the trees while the
horses were refreshed, and then they pushed on again with
such speed as was possible with poorer roads and soberer
horses; and two hours before sunset they were at the river.
The little woman had enjoyed the drive. When she found
that she had cut loose from her old life, and was entering upon
one unknown and untried, in pleasant companionship, she
was thoroughly happy. It was all like a fairy story; and
there before her rolled the beautiful river, and, waiting on the
shore, were the trunks and remnants of baggage that had been
started for their destination before daylight, and the guides
with their boats, and with wild flowers in their hat-bands.

The carriages were dismissed to find their way back to Mike
Conlin's that night, while Jim, throwing off his coat, assisted
in loading the three boats. Mr. Balfour had brought along
with him, not only a large flag for the hotel, but half a dozen
smaller ones for the little fleet. The flags were soon mounted
upon little rods, and set up at either end of each boat, and
when the luggage was all loaded, and the passengers were all
in their places—Jim taking his wife and Miss Snow in his own
familiar craft—they pushed out into the stream, and started
for a race. Jim was the most powerful man of the three, and
was aching for work. It was a race all the way, but the
broader chest and harder muscles won. It was a regatta without

spectators, but as full of excitement as if the shores had
been fringed with a cheering crowd.

The two women chatted together in the stern of Jim's boat,
or sat in silence, as if they were enchanted, watching the
changing shores, while the great shadows of the woods deepened
upon them. They had never seen anything like it.
It was a new world—God's world, which man had not
marred.

At last they heard the barking of a dog, and, looking far
up among the woods, they caught the vision of a new building.
The boys in the boats behind yelled with delight.
Ample in its dimensions and fair in its outlines, there stood
the little woman's home. Her eyes filled with tears, and she
hid them on Miss Snow's shoulder.

“Be ye disap'inted, little woman?” inquired Jim, tenderly.

“Oh, no.”

“Feelin's a little too many fur ye?”

The little woman nodded, while Miss Snow put her arm
around her neck and whispered.

“A woman is a curi's bein',” said Jim. “She cries when
she's tickled, an' she laughs when she's mad.”

“I'm not mad,” said the little woman, bursting into a
laugh, and lifting her tear-burdened eyes to Jim.

“An' then,” said Jim, “she cries and laughs all to oncet,
an' a feller don't know whether to take off his jacket or put
up his umberell.”

This quite restored the “little woman,” and her eyes were
dry and merry as the boat touched the bank, and the two
women were helped on shore. Before the other boats came
up, they were in the house, with the delighted Turk at their
heels, and Mike Conlin's wife courtseying before them.

It was a merry night at Number Nine. Jim's wife became
the mistress at once. She knew where everything was to be
found, as well as if she had been there for a year, and played
the hostess to Mr. and Mrs. Balfour as agreeably as if her life
had been devoted to the duties of her establishment.

Mr. Balfour could not make a long stay in the woods, but
had determined to leave his wife there with the boys. His
business was pressing at home, and he had heard something
while at Sevenoaks that made him uneasy on Mr. Benedict's
account. The latter had kept himself very quiet while at the
wedding, but his intimacy with one of Mr. Balfour's boys had
been observed, and there were those who detected the likeness
of this boy, though much changed by growth and better conditions,
to the little Harry Benedict of other days. Mr. Balfour
had overheard the speculations of the villagers on the
strange Mr. Williams who had for so long a time been housed
with Jim Fenton, and the utterance of suspicions that he was
no other than their old friend, Paul Benedict. He knew that
this suspicion would be reported by Mr. Belcher's agent at
once, and that Mr. Belcher would take desperate steps to secure
himself in his possessions. What form these measures would
take—whether of fraud or personal violence—he could not
tell.

He advised Mr. Benedict to give him a power of attorney
to prosecute Mr. Belcher for the sum due him on the use of
his inventions, and to procure an injunction on his further
use of them, unless he should enter into an agreement to pay
such a royalty as should be deemed equitable by all the
parties concerned. Mr. Benedict accepted the advice, and
the papers were executed at once.

Armed with this document, Mr. Balfour bade good-bye to
Number Nine and its pleasant company, and hastened back
to the city, where he took the first opportunity to report to
his friends the readiness of Jim to receive them for the
summer.

It would be pleasant to follow them into their forest
pastimes, but more stirring and important matters will hold
us to the city.