hired woman whom she had made over to her, and a young man who had
been serving as apprentice to Mr. Samuel. His name was Phineas Adams.
He was very shy and silent, but a good workman.

Samuel Wales left a will bequeathing everything to his widow; that was
solemnly read in the fore-room one afternoon; then the inventory had
to be taken. That, on account of the amount of property, was quite an
undertaking; but it was carried out with the greatest formality and
precision.

For several days, Mr. Aaron Whitcomb and Mr. Silas White were stalking
majestically about the premises, with note-books and pens. Aaron
Whitcomb was a grave, portly old man, with a large head of white hair.
Silas White was little and wiry and fussy. He monopolized the greater
part of the business, although he was not half as well fitted for it
as his companion.

They pried into everything with religious exactitude. Mrs. Polly
watched them with beseeming awe and deference, but it was a great
trial to her, and she grew very nervous over it. It seemed dreadful to
have all her husband's little personal effects, down to his neckband
and mittens, handled over, and their worth in shillings and pence
calculated. She had a price fixed on them already in higher currency.

Ann found her crying one afternoon sitting on the kitchen settle, with
her apron over her head. When she saw the little girl's pitying look,
she poured out her trouble to her.

"They've just been valuing his mittens and gloves," said she, sobbing,
"at two-and-sixpence. I shall be thankful when they are through."

"Are there any more of his things?" asked Ann, her black eyes
flashing, with the tears in them.

"I think they've seen about all. There's his blue jacket he used to
milk in, a-hanging behind the shed door--I guess they haven't valued
that yet."

"I think it's a shame!" quoth Ann. "I don't believe there's any need
of so much law."

"Hush, child! You mustn't set yourself up against the judgment of your
elders. Such things have to be done."

Ann said no more, but the indignant sparkle did not fade out of her
eyes at all. She watched her opportunity, and took down Mr. Wales's
old blue jacket from its peg behind the shed door, ran with it
upstairs, and hid it in her own room behind the bed. "There," said
she, "Mrs. Wales sha'n't cry over that!"

That night, at tea time, the work of taking the inventory was
complete. Mr. Whitcomb and Mr. White walked away with their long
lists