s. Eland, if she's related to Lemuel Aden. Seems
to me she is his brother Abe's darter. Lem was a sharper; but Abe was a
right out an' out----"

"Now, Bob!" interposed his wife. "That's all gone and done for."

"Well, so 'tis, Marm. But I can't never forget it. I was a boy and my
marm was a widder woman. The five hundred dollars was all we had--every
cent we had in the world," he added, looking about at the interested
faces of his visitors.

"Abe Aden was a lawyer, or suthin' like that. He was a dabster at most
things, includin' horse-tradin'. My father had put all the money he had
in the world in Abe's hands, in some trade or other. We tried to git it
back when father was kill't so sudden in the sawmill.

"Just erbout then Abe got inter trouble in a horse-trade. He was a good
deal of a Gyp--so 'twas said. He left everything in Lem's hands and
skedaddled out West. But he didn't leave no five hundred dollars in
Lem's hands for _us_--no, sir!" and the old man shook his head
ruminatively.

"No, sir. He likely got away with that five hundred to pay his fare, and
so escaped jail."

"You don't know that, Bob," said his wife, gravely.

"No. I don't know it. But I know that my marm and I suffered all that
winter because of losin' the five hundred. I was only a boy. I hadn't
got my growth. She overworked because of that rascal's dishonesty, and
it broke her down and killed her. I loved my marm," he added simply.

"'Course you did--'course you did, Bob," said his wife, briskly. Then
she smiled about at the tableful of young folk, and confessed: "He begun
callin' _me_ 'marm,' like he did his mother, right away when we was
married. She'd been dead since he was a little boy, and I considered it
the sweetest compliment Bob could pay me. I've been 'marm' to him ever
since."

"You sure have," declared Mr. Buckham, stoutly. "But that ain't bringin'
my poor old marm back--nor the five hundred dollars. We never did hear
direct from Abe Aden; but by and by a leetle gal wandered back here to
the neighborhood. Said she was Abe's darter. He and her mother was lost
in a big fire in some Western city; and she'd lost her sister, too."

"Poor child!" sighed the old lady. "You couldn't hold a grudge against
the child, Bob."

"Who says I done so?" demanded the farmer. "No, sir! I never even seed
the child more'n once or twice. But I know her name was Marion. And I
heard her tell her story. The Chicago fire was a nine days' wonder, and