o its full stature again. With flashing eye and grateful heart,
and with hand uplifted in pledge and prophecy, she said:

"Now and here I proclaim--"

But she was interrupted by a visitor. It was the editor and proprietor
of the SAGAMORE. He had happened into Lakeside to pay a duty-call upon
an obscure grandmother of his who was nearing the end of her pilgrimage,
and with the idea of combining business with grief he had looked up
the Fosters, who had been so absorbed in other things for the past four
years that they neglected to pay up their subscription. Six dollars due.
No visitor could have been more welcome. He would know all about Uncle
Tilbury and what his chances might be getting to be, cemeterywards. They
could, of course, ask no questions, for that would squelch the bequest,
but they could nibble around on the edge of the subject and hope for
results. The scheme did not work. The obtuse editor did not know he was
being nibbled at; but at last, chance accomplished what art had failed
in. In illustration of something under discussion which required the
help of metaphor, the editor said:

"Land, it's a tough as Tilbury Foster!--as WE say."

It was sudden, and it made the Fosters jump. The editor noticed, and
said, apologetically:

"No harm intended, I assure you. It's just a saying; just a joke, you
know--nothing of it. Relation of yours?"

Sally crowded his burning eagerness down, and answered with all the
indifference he could assume:

"I--well, not that I know of, but we've heard of him." The editor was
thankful, and resumed his composure. Sally added: "Is he--is he--well?"

"Is he WELL? Why, bless you he's in Sheol these five years!"

The Fosters were trembling with grief, though it felt like joy. Sally
said, non-committally--and tentatively:

"Ah, well, such is life, and none can escape--not even the rich are
spared."

The editor laughed.

"If you are including Tilbury," said he, "it don't apply. HE hadn't a
cent; the town had to bury him."

The Fosters sat petrified for two minutes; petrified and cold. Then,
white-faced and weak-voiced, Sally asked:

"Is it true? Do you KNOW it to be true?"

"Well, I should say! I was one of the executors. He hadn't anything to
leave but a wheelbarrow, and he left that to me. It hadn't any wheel,
and wasn't any good. Still, it was something, and so, to square up, I
scribbled off a sort of a little obituarial send-off for him, but it got
crowded out."

Th