across the street to sit half an hour before breakfast in the Common.
The old crossing-sweeper was already there, to receive his penny; and
the orange-woman, expectant, sold her apex orange to him for a silver
thripenny bit as his before-breakfast while awaiting the more
dignified cunctation of his auguster spouse.

The old gentleman's mind was running on McMurtagh; and a robuster grin
than usual encouraged even others than his chartered pensioners to
come up to him for largess. Mr. Bowdoin's eyes wandered from the
orange-woman to the telescope-man, and thence to an old elm with one
gaunt dead limb that stretched out over the dawn. It was very
pleasant that summer morning, and he felt no hurry to go in to
breakfast.

Love was the best thing in the world; then why did it make the misery
of it? How irradiated old Jamie's face had been the day before! Yet
Jamie would never have gone to meet her at Worcester, had he not given
him the hint. Dear, dear, what could be done for St. Clair, as he
called himself? Mr. Bowdoin half suspected there had been trouble at
the bank. Mercedes such a pretty creature, too! Only, Abby really
never would do for her what she might have done. Why were women so
impatient of each other? Old Mr. Bowdoin felt vaguely that it was they
who were responsible for the social platform; and he looked at his
watch.

Heavens! five minutes past eight! Mr. Bowdoin got up hurriedly, and,
nodding to the orange-woman, shuffled into his house. But it was too
late; Mrs. Bowdoin sat rigid behind the coffee-urn. Harley looked up
with a twinkle in his eye.

"James, I should think, at your time of life, you'd stop rambling over
the Common before breakfast,--in carpet slippers, too,--when you know
I've been up so late the night before at a meeting in behalf of"--

A sudden twinkle flashed over the old gentleman's rosy face; then he
became solemn, preternaturally solemn. Harley caught the expression
and listened intently. Mrs. Bowdoin, pouring out cream as if it were
coals of fire on his head, was not looking at him.

"There!" gasped old Mr. Bowdoin, dropping heavily into a chair.
"Always said it would happen. I feel faint!"

"James?" said Mrs. Bowdoin.

"Always said it would happen--and there's your cousin, Wendell
Phillips, out on the Common, hanging stark on the limb of an
elm-tree."

"_James!_"

"Always said it would come to this. Perhaps you'd go out in carpet
slippers if you saw your wife's cousin han