ed.
S'pose I might as well toddle over to Stetsons' and inquire if they
haven't disappeared, too."

He went through the old firs back of the lot and across the field to a
rather shabby house beyond. A cheery-faced woman answered his knock
and looked at him in a puzzled fashion. "Have you forgot me, Mrs.
Stetson? Don't you remember Lovell Stevens and how you used to give
him plum tarts when he'd bring your turkeys home?"

Mrs. Stetson caught both his hands in a hearty clasp.

"I guess I haven't forgotten!" she declared. "Well, well, and you're
Lovell! I think I ought to know your face, though you've changed a
lot. Fifteen years have made a big difference in you. Come right in.
Pa, this is Lovell--you mind Lovell, the boy Aunt Sally and Uncle Tom
had for years?"

"Reckon I do," drawled Jonah Stetson with a friendly grin. "Ain't
likely to forget some of the capers you used to be cutting up. You've
filled out considerable. Where have you been for the last ten years?
Aunt Sally fretted a lot over you, thinking you was dead or gone to
the bad."

Lovell's face clouded.

"I know I ought to have written," he said repentantly, "but you know
I'm a terrible poor scholar, and I'd do most anything than try to
write a letter. But where's Uncle Tom and Aunt Sally gone? Surely they
ain't dead?"

"No," said Jonah Stetson slowly, "no--but I guess they'd rather be.
They're in the poorhouse."

"The poorhouse! Aunt Sally in the poorhouse!" exclaimed Lovell.

"Yes, and it's a burning shame," declared Mrs. Stetson. "Aunt Sally's
just breaking her heart from the disgrace of it. But it didn't seem as
if it could be helped. Uncle Tom got so crippled with rheumatism he
couldn't work and Aunt Sally was too frail to do anything. They hadn't
any relations and there was a mortgage on the house."

"There wasn't any when I went away."

"No; they had to borrow money six years ago when Uncle Tom had his
first spell of rheumatic fever. This spring it was clear that there
was nothing for them but the poorhouse. They went three months ago and
terrible hard they took it, especially Aunt Sally, I felt awful about
it myself. Jonah and I would have took them if we could, but we just
couldn't--we've nothing but Jonah's wages and we have eight children
and not a bit of spare room. I go over to see Aunt Sally as often as I
can and take her some little thing, but I dunno's she wouldn't rather
not see anybody than see them in the poorhouse."

Lovell