se manner, and a sweet voice. What with the cleaning,
dusting, and preserving, they were ever busy. A fly, driven hither
and thither, fell of exhaustion if not disabled with a broom. They
were two weeks getting ready for the teacher. When, at last, he
came that afternoon, supper was ready and they were nearly worn out.

"Here he is!" one whispered suddenly from a window. Then, with a
last poke at her hair, Miss Letitia admitted the teacher. They
spoke their greeting in a half whisper and stood near, waiting
timidly for his coat and cap.

"No, thank you," said he, taking them to a nail. "I can do my own
hanging, as the man said when he committed suicide."

Miss S'mantha looked suspicious and walked to the other side of the
stove. Impressed by the silence of the room, much exaggerated by
the ticking of the clock, Sidney Trove sat a moment looking around
him. Daylight had begun to grow dim. The table, with its cover
of white linen, was a thing to give one joy. A ruby tower of
jelly, a snowy summit of frosted cake, a red pond of preserved
berries, a mound of chicken pie, and a corduroy marsh of mince,
steaming volcanoes of new biscuit, and a great heap of apple
fritters, lay in a setting of blue china. They stood a moment by
the stove,--the two sisters,--both trembling in this unusual
publicity. Miss Letitia had her hand upon the teapot.

"Our tea is ready," said she, presently, advancing to the table.
She spoke in a low, gentle tone.

"This is grand!" said he, sitting down with them. "I tell you,
we'll have fun before I leave here."

They looked up at him and then at each other, Letitia laughing
silently, S'mantha suspicious. For many years fun had been a thing
far from their thought.

"Play checkers?" he inquired.

"Afraid we couldn't," said Miss Letitia, answering for both.

"Old Sledge?"

She shook her head, smiling.

"I don't wish to lead you into recklessness," the teacher remarked,
"but I'm sure you wouldn't mind being happy."

Miss S'mantha had a startled look.

"In--in a--proper way," he added. "Let's be joyful. Perhaps we
could play 'I spy.'"

"Y!" they both exclaimed, laughing silently.

"Never ate chicken pie like that," he added in all sincerity. "If
I were a poet, I'd indite an ode 'written after eating some of the
excellent chicken pie of the Misses Tower.' I'm going to have some
like it on my farm."

In reaching to help himself he touched the teapot, withdrawing his