a, looking up.

For a moment you could have heard a pine needle drop on the stoop. Then
Rias thrust his hands in his pockets and voiced the general sentiment.

"Well, I'll be--goldurned!" said he.

"Didn't say nothin' about Jake?" queried Lem.

"No," answered Cynthia, "that's all--except two pieces of cardboard with
something about the Truro Railroad and our names. I don't know what they
are." And she took them from the envelope.

"Guess I could tell you if I was pressed," said Lem, amid a shout of
merriment from the group.

"Air you goin', Will?" said Sam Price, pausing with his foot on the step
of his buggy, that he might have the complete news before he left.

"Godfrey, Will," exclaimed Rigs, breathlessly, "you hain't a-goin' to
throw up a chance to stay a hull week at the Pelican, be you?" The mere
possibility of refusal overpowered Rias.

Those who are familiar with that delightful French song which treats of
the leave-taking of one Monsieur Dumollet will appreciate, perhaps, the
attentions which were showered upon William Wetherell and Cynthia upon
their departure for the capital next morning. Although Mr. Wetherell had
at one time been actually a resident of Boston, he received quite as many
cautions from his neighbors as Monsieur Dumollet. Billets doux and
pistols were, of course, not mentioned, but it certainly behooved him,
when he should have arrived at that place of intrigues, to be on the
lookout for cabals.

They took the stage-coach from Brampton over the pass: picturesque
stage-coach with its apple-green body and leather springs, soon to be
laid away forever if the coveted Truro Franchise Bill becomes a law;
stage-coach which pulls up defiantly beside its own rival at Truro
station, where our passengers take the train down the pleasant waterways
and past the little white villages among the fruit trees to the capital.
The thrill of anticipation was in Cynthia's blood, and the flush of
pleasure on her cheeks, when they stopped at last under the sheds. The
conductor snapped his fingers and cried, "This way, Judge," and there was
Jethro in his swallow-tailed coat and stove-pipe hat awaiting them. He
seized Wetherell's carpet-bag with one hand and Cynthia's arm with the
other, and shouldered his way through the people, who parted when they
saw who it was.

"Uncle Jethro," cried Cynthia, breathlessly, "I didn't know you were a
judge. What are you judge of?"

"J-judge of clothes, Cynthy. D-don't yo