hat day, was a familiar figure
to all the county round. He had a smooth, carefully shaven face, with a
fine outline of nose and chin, and his straight gray hair shone from
faithful brushing. He was almost aggressively clean. Even his blue eyes
had the appearance of having just been washed, like a spring day after a
shower. It was a frequent remark that he looked as if he had come out
of a bandbox; and one critic even went so far as to assert that on
Sundays he sandpapered his eyes and gave a little extra polish to his
bones. But these were calumnies; though to-day his suit of home-made
blue was quite speckless, and the checked gingham neckerchief, which
made his ordinary wear, still kept its stiff, starched creases.

"Dirt don't stick to _you_, Mr. Oldfield," once said a seeking widow.
"Your washing can't be much. I guess anybody 'd be glad to undertake it
for you." Mr. Oldfield nodded gravely, as one receiving the tribute
which was justly his, and continued to do his washing himself.

As he walked the dusty road, bearing his little bag, so he had walked it
for years, sometimes within a few miles of home, and again at the
extreme limit of the county edge. The clocks of the region were all his
clients, some regarded with compassion ("ramshackle things" that needed
perpetual tinkering) and others with a holy awe. "The only thing
Nicholas Oldfield bows the knee before is a double-back-action clock a
thousand years old," said Brad Freeman, the regardless. "That's how he
reads Ancient of Days." The justice of the remark was acknowledged,
though, as touching Mr. Oldfield, it was felt to be striking rather too
keenly at the root of things. For Nicholas Oldfield was looked upon
with a respect not so much inspired by his outward circumstances as by
his method of taking them. There are, indeed, ways and ways among us who
serve the public. When Tom O'Neil went round peddling essences, children
saw him from afar, ran to meet him, and, falling on his pack, besought
him for "two-three-drops-o'-c'logne" with such fervor that the mothers
had to haul them off by main force, in order themselves to approach his
redolence; but when the clock-mender appeared, with his little bag,
propriety walked before him, and the naughtiest scion of the flock would
come soberly in, to announce:--

"Mother, here's Mr. Oldfield."

It is true that this little old man did exemplify the dignity and
restraint of life to such a degree that, had it not been f