h on to forty rod." There
were "Boston Stores" and "Great Emporiums" and shops, modest as
they were small, in that forty rods of Hillsborough. Midway was a
little white building, its eaves within reach of one's hand, its
gable on the line of the sidewalk overhanging which, from a crane
above the door, was a big, golden spool. In its two windows were
lace and ribbons and ladies' hats and spools of thread, and blue
shades drawn high from seven o'clock in the morning until dark. It
was the little shop of Ruth Tole--a house of Fate on the way from
happening to history. There secrets, travel-worn, were nourished a
while and sent on their way; reputations were made over and often
trimmed with excellent taste and discrimination. The wicked might
prosper for a time, but by and by the fates were at work on them,
there in the little shop, and then every one smiled as the sinner
passed, with the decoration of his rank upon him. And the sinner
smiled also, seeing not the badge on his own back but only that on
the back of his brother, and was highly pleased, for, if he had sin
deeper than his brother's he had some discretion. Relentless and
not over-just were they of this weird sisterhood. Since the time
of the gods they have been without honour but never without work,
and often they have had a better purpose than they knew. Those of
Hillsborough did their work as if with a sense of its great
solemnity. There was a flavour of awe in their nods and whispers,
and they seemed to know they were touching immortal souls. But now
and then they put on the masque of comedy.

Ruth Tole was behind the counter, sorting threads. She was a
maiden of middle life and severe countenance, of few and decisive
words. The door of the little shop was ajar, and near it a woman
sat knitting. She had a position favourable for eye and ear. She
could see all who passed, on either side of the way, and not a word
or move in the shop escaped her. In the sisterhood she bore the
familiar name of Lize. She had been talking about that old case of
Riley Brooke and the Widow Glover.

"Looks to me," said she, thoughtfully, as she tickled her scalp
with a knitting-needle, "that she took the kinks out o' him. He's
a good deal more respectable."

"Like a panther with his teeth pulled," said a woman who stood by
the counter, buying a spool of thread. "Ain't you heard how they
made up?"

"Land sakes, no!" said the sister Lize, hurriedly finishing a