of four
hundred dollars a year!--or any income at all not derived from his own
labor--was unheard of. It is said that when the stage from over Truro
Gap arrived in Brampton Street a hundred eyes gazed at him unseen, from
various ambushes, and followed him up the walk to Silas Wheelock's,
where he was to board. In half an hour Brampton knew the essentials
of Isaac Worthington's story, and Sam Price was on his way with it to
Coniston for distribution at Jonah Winch's store.

Young Mr. Worthington was from Boston--no less; slim, pale, medium
height, but with an alert look, and a high-bridged nose. But his
clothes! Sam Price's vocabulary was insufficient here, they were cut
in such a way, and Mr. Worthington was downright distinguished-looking
under his gray beaver. Why had he come to Brampton? demanded Deacon
Ira Perkins. Sam had saved this for the last. Young Mr. Worthington was
threatened with consumption, and had been sent to live with his distant
relative, Silas Wheelock.

The presence of a gentleman of leisure--although threatened with
consumption--became an all-absorbing topic in two villages and three
hamlets, and more than one swain, hitherto successful, felt the wind
blow colder. But in a fortnight it was known that a petticoat did not
make Isaac Worthington even turn his head. Curiosity centred on Silas
Wheelock's barn, where Mr. Worthington had fitted up a shop, and,
presently various strange models of contrivances began to take shape
there. What these were, Silas himself knew not; and the gentleman of
leisure was, alas! close-mouthed. When he was not sawing and hammering
and planing, he took long walks up and down Coniston Water, and was
surprised deep in thought at several places.

Nathan Bass's story-and-a-half house, devoid of paint, faced the road,
and behind it was the shed, or barn, that served as the tannery, and
between the tannery and Coniston Water were the vats. The rain flew in
silvery spray, and the drops shone like jewels on the coat of a young
man who stood looking in at the tannery door. Young Jake Wheeler, son of
the village spendthrift, was driving a lean white horse round in a ring:
to the horse was attached a beam, and on the beam a huge round stone
rolled on a circular oak platform. Jethro Bass, who was engaged in
pushing hemlock bark under the stone to be crushed, straightened. Of the
three, the horse had seen the visitor first, and stopped in his tracks.

"Jethro!" whispered Jake, tin