he locality to
those residing therein."

"I think I shall like it here," said Dorothy. "At least I shall try to."

"A very commendable spirit," rejoined the old gentleman, warmly, "and
rather remarkable in one so young."

Mrs. Carr graciously acknowledged the compliment, and the guest flushed
with pleasure. To perception less fine, there would have been food for
unseemly mirth in his attire. Never in all her life before had Dorothy
seen rough cow-hide boots, and grey striped trousers worn with a rusty and
moth-eaten dress-coat in the middle of the afternoon. An immaculate
expanse of shirt-front and a general air of extreme cleanliness went far
toward redeeming the unfamiliar costume. The silk hat, with a bell-shaped
crown and wide, rolling brim, belonged to a much earlier period, and had
been brushed to look like new. Even Harlan noted that the ravelled edges
of his linen had been carefully trimmed and the worn binding of the hat
brim inked wherever necessary.

His wrinkled old face was kindly, though somewhat sad. His weak blue eyes
were sheltered by an enormous pair of spectacles, which he took off and
wiped continually. He was smooth-shaven and his scanty hair was as white
as the driven snow. Now, as he sat in Uncle Ebeneezer's parlour, he seemed
utterly friendless and forlorn--a complete failure of that pitiful type
which never for a moment guesses that it has failed.

"It will be my delight," the old man was saying, his hollow cheeks faintly
flushed, "to see that the elite of Judson Centre pay proper respect to you
at an early date. If I were not most unfortunately a single gentleman, my
wife would do herself the honour of calling upon you immediately and of
tendering you some sort of hospitality approximately commensurate with
your worth. As it is----"

"As it is," said Harlan, taking up the wandering thread of the discourse,
"that particular pleasure must be on our side. We both hope that you will
come often, and informally."

"It would be a solace to me," rejoined the old gentleman, tremulously, "to
find the niece and nephew of my departed friend both congenial and
companionable. He was my Colonel--I served under him in the war--and until
the last, he allowed me to address him as Colonel--a privilege accorded to
no one else. He very seldom left his own estate, but at his request I
often spent an evening or a Sunday afternoon in his society, and after his
untimely death, I feel the loss of his companionshi