t upon life and rejoicing in
the light-blue ribbons on her hat, the light-blue ribbon around her
waist, the light-blue, silk half-mittens on her hands, and the beautiful
red coral necklace about her neck and the red coral buttons that
fastened her gown in the back.

The air was full of exhilaration; everybody was laughing and shouting
and calling greetings; for Carlow County was turning out, and from far
and near the country people came; nay, from over the county line, clouds
of dust rising from every thoroughfare and highway, and sweeping into
town to herald their coming.

Dibb Zane, the "sprinkling contractor," had been at work with the town
water-cart since the morning stars were bright, but he might as well
have watered the streets with his tears, which, indeed, when the farmers
began to come in, bringing their cyclones of dust, he drew nigh unto,
after a spell of profanity as futile as his cart.

"Tief wie das Meer soll deine Liebe sein,"

hummed the editor in the cottage. His song had taken on a reflective
tone as that of one who cons a problem, or musically ponders which card
to play. He was kneeling before an old trunk in his bedchamber. From
one compartment he took a neatly folded pair of duck trousers and a
light-gray tweed coat; from another, a straw hat with a ribbon of bright
colors. They had lain in the trunk a long time undisturbed; and he
examined them musingly. He shook the coat and brushed it; then he laid
the garments upon his bed, and proceeded to shave himself carefully,
after which he donned the white trousers, the gray coat, and, rummaging
in the trunk again, found a gay pink cravat, which he fastened about his
tall collar (also a resurrection from the trunk) with a pearl pin.
After that he had a long, solemn time arranging his hair with a pair
of brushes. When at last he was suited, and his dressing completed, he
sallied forth to breakfast.

Xenophon stared after him as he went out of the gate whistling heartily.
The old darky lifted his hands, palms outward.

"Lan' name, who dat!" he exclaimed aloud. "Who dat in dem pan-jingeries?
He jine' de circus?" His hands fell upon his knees, and he got to his
feet pneumatically, shaking his head with foreboding. "Honey, honey,
hit' baid luck, baid luck sing 'fo' breakfus. Trouble 'fo' de day be
done. Trouble, honey, gre't trouble. Baid luck, baid luck!"

Along the Square the passing of the editor in his cool equipment evoked
some gasps