et that hollow bit of chivalry. Was it
honest, genuine, open? No! Why will men at critical junctures stoop
to such trickery? Aunt Mollie said I might think that tenderline was
fresh-killed; but not so--she has fried it last December and put it down
in its own juice in a four-gallon crock, and now look how fresh it come
out! She seemed as proud as if she had invented something. She had a
right to be. It was a charming notion and I could have eaten the rest of
the crock--but, no matter. Half a dozen biscuits copiously gummed up with
preserves of one kind or another would do as well--almost.

So Aunt Mollie showed me objects of interest in the room, including
her new carpet sweeper, a stuffed road runner, a ship built in a bottle,
and the coloured crayon portraits of herself and Uncle Henry, wearing
blue clothes and gold jewellery and white collars and ecru neckties.
Also, the marriage certificate. This was no mere official certificate.
It was the kind that costs three dollars flat, over and above what you
give to the party that does it for you, being genuine steel-engraved,
with a beautiful bridal couple under a floral bell, the groom in severe
evening dress, and liberally spotted with cupids and pigeons. It is worth
the money and an ornament to any wall, especially in the gilt frame.

Aunt Mollie seemed as proud of this document as she had been with the
tenderloin. I scanned it word by word for her pleasure. I noticed
especially the date. Aunt Mollie said that her and Henry were now in
the fortieth year on this place, and it had changed in looks a whole
lot since they came here. I again looked at the date of the certificate.

Ma Pettengill said, well, we must be getting on, and they must both come
over to the Arrowhead for a day right soon. And Uncle Henry said here
was a quart bottle of his peach brandy, going on eight year old, and
would I take it along back with me and try it? Parties had told him it
was good; but he didn't know--mebbe so, mebbe not. He'd like to know what
I thought. It seemed little enough to do to bring a bit of gladness into
this old gentleman's life, and I was not the man to wound him by refusal.
It was as if Michelangelo had said "Come on round to the Sistine Chapel
this afternoon and look over a little thing I've dashed off." If he had
brought two bottles instead of one my answer would have been the same.

So we were out on our refreshed horses and heading home; and I said,
without loss of tim