Good!" said I, with as much heartiness as I could answer; marriage did
not interest me. "Congratulations, George. Nellie Dean, of course."

"Yes."

"I'm glad for you. And for her. She'll make you a good wife, I'm sure."

He drew a long breath. "Yes," he said slowly, "Nellie's a good girl."

"When is the--what do they call it? the happy event to take place?"

"In the fall some time, if all goes well. I hope it will."

"Humph! Yes, I should think you might hope as much as that. Why
shouldn't it go well?"

"Hey? Oh, of course it will!" He laughed and rose from his chair as
several men came into the bank. "I'll have to leave you, Ros," he said.
"There's a directors' meeting this morning. They're coming now."

As I passed out of the gate and through the group of directors I noticed
that they also regarded me with interest. Two, men from neighboring
towns whom I scarcely knew, whispered to each other. Captain Elisha
Warren shook hands with me and inquired concerning Mother. The last of
the group was Captain Jedediah Dean, and he touched me on the shoulder.

"Ros," he whispered, "you're all right. Understand? I say you're all
right."

"Thanks," I answered, briefly.

"I heard about it," he whispered. "Ase Peters said the Grand Panjandrum
was cranky as a shark with the toothache all day yesterday. You must
tell me the yarn when we get together. I missed you when I called just
now, but I'll be down again pretty soon. You won't lose nothin' by this.
So long."

As I came down the bank steps Sim Eldredge called across the road.

"Good-by, Ros," he shouted. "Come in again next time you're up street."

In all my period of residence in Denboro I had never before been treated
like this. People had never before gone out of their way to shake hands
with me. No one had considered it worth while to ask favors of me.
Sim and Alvin were not to be taken seriously, of course, and both were
looking after their own pocketbooks, but their actions were straws
proving the wind to be blowing in my direction. I thought, and smiled
scornfully, that I, all at once, seemed to have become a person of some
importance.

But my scorn was not entirely sincere. There was a certain gratification
in the thought. I might pretend--I had pretended--that Denboro opinion,
good or bad, was a matter of complete indifference to me. I had assumed
myself a philosopher, to whom, in the consciousness of right, such
trifles were of no consequence. But, philo