e to poor Jonesy at Providence, telling him that, if he could get
a day off, maybe he'd better come down to Wellmouth, and see to his
fences; somebody was feeding cows in his pasture.

The next day was Labor Day, and what was left of the boarders was going
for a final picnic over to Baker's Grove at Ostable. We went, three
catboats full of us, and Van and Mabel Seabury was in the same boat. We
made the grove all right, and me and Jonadab had our hands full, baking
clams and chasing spiders out of the milk, and doing all the chores that
makes a picnic so joyfully miserable. When the dinner dishes was washed
I went off by myself to a quiet bunch of bayberry bushes half a mile
from the grove and laid down to rest, being beat out.

I guess I fell asleep, and what woke me was somebody speaking close by.
I was going to get up and clear out, not being in the habit of listening
to other folks' affairs, but the very first words I heard showed me that
'twas best, for the feelings of all concerned, to lay still and keep on
with my nap.

"Oh, no!" says Mabel Seabury, dreadful nervous and hurried-like; "oh,
no! Mr. Van Wedderburn, please don't say any more. I can't listen to
you, I'm so sorry."

"Do you mean that--really mean it?" asks Van, his voice rather shaky
and seemingly a good deal upset. "My dear young lady, I realize that I'm
twice your age and more, and I suppose that I was an old fool to hope;
but I've had trouble lately, and I've been very lonely, and you have
been so kind that I thought--I did hope--I--Can't you?"

"No," says she, more nervous than ever, and shaky, too, but decided.
"No! Oh, NO! It's all my fault. I wanted you to like me; I wanted you to
like me very much. But not this way. I'm--I'm--so sorry. Please forgive
me."

She walked on then, fast, and toward the grove, and he followed,
slashing at the weeds with his cane, and acting a good deal as if he'd
like to pick up his playthings and go home. When they was out of sight I
set up and winked, large and comprehensive, at the scenery. It looked to
me like I was going to collect Jonadab's quarter.

That night as I passed the lilac bushes by the gate, somebody steps out
and grabs my arm. I jumped, looked up, and there, glaring down at me out
of the clouds, was friend Jones from Providence, R. I.

"Wingate," he whispers, fierce, "who is the man? And where is he?"

"Easy," I begs. "Easy on that arm. I might want to use it again. What
man?"

"That man y