ain, no dust, no foot-mark on it; no
heavy shoe that has been tramping about in the mud has been up there. But
it is necessary to go on or go back, and of the two the first is the
lesser evil.

The staircase is guarded by carved banisters, and after going up two
flights you enter a large and vacant apartment prepared for the meeting of
the farmers' club. At the farther end is a small mahogany table, with an
armchair for the president, paper, pens, ink, blotting-paper, and a wax
candle and matches, in case he should want a light. Two less dignified
chairs are for the secretary (whose box, containing the club records,
books of reference, &c., is on the table), and for the secretary's clerk.
Rows of plain chairs stretch across the room, rank after rank; these are
for the audience. And last of all are two long forms, as if for Hodge, if
Hodge chooses to come.

A gleam of the afternoon sun--as the clouds part awhile--attracts one
naturally to the window. The thickness of the wall in which it is placed
must be some two or three feet, so that there is a recess on which to put
your arms, if you do not mind the dust, and look out. The window is half
open, and the sounds of the street come up, 'baaing' and bellowing and
squeaking, the roll of wheels, the tramp of feet, and, more distant, the
shouting of an auctioneer in the market-place, whose stentorian tones come
round the corner as he puts up rickcloths for sale. Noise of man and
animal below; above, here in the chamber of science, vacancy and silence.
Looking upwards, a narrow streak of blue sky can be seen above the ancient
house across the way.

After awhile there comes the mellow sound of bells from the church which
is near by, though out of sight; bells with a soft, old-world tone; bells
that chime slowly and succeed each other without haste, ringing forth a
holy melody composed centuries ago. It is as well to pause a minute and
listen to their voice, even in this railroad age of hurry. Over the busy
market-place the notes go forth, and presently the hum comes back and
dwells in the recess of the window. It is a full hour after the time
fixed, and now at last, as the carillon finishes, there are sounds of
heavy boots upon the staircase. Three or four farmers gather on the
landing; they converse together just outside. The secretary's clerk comes,
and walks to the table; more farmers, who, now they have company, boldly
enter and take seats; still more farmers; the secreta