Mr. Simlins, don't you think it is rather hard measure to ask me
why people dislike me?"

"Well--I don't see as I do," said Mr. Simlins placidly;--"'cause I know
pretty well it's some chymistry idee of his own; and if I could get
hold of it, you see, I should have a better handle. I guess the school
never went on better than it's goin'; _he_ don't know beans."

"How do you know that I do?" said Mr. Linden smiling. "Why don't you
ask him? I think at least half his ill will arises from a mistake."

"Have asked _him_," said Mr. Simlins--"just come from there;--but he's
pretty much like them V's we were speakin' about; don't spell nothin'.
What's his mistake about then? if I knowed that, I could bring things
to a concert."

"Why," said Mr. Linden with grave deliberation, "suppose he wants to
buy your house? and takes a walk up that way to set forth his terms."

"Well--suppose he does"--said Mr. Simlins attentively.

"He finds you and Judge Harrison in the porch, you talk about the crops
and the weather, and he tells you he wants your house. What do you say
to him?"

"I tell him I don't sell it to no one but a Simlins--nor that neither
till I can't live in it no longer myself."

"Is that your fault--or Judge Harrison's?" said Mr. Linden, setting the
basket of Stoutenburgh Sweetings on the little table in the full light
of the lamp. "Miss Faith, if those are 'sweetenings,' they may as well
do their office."

The farmer sat with his elbows on his knees, touching the tips of his
fingers together in thoughtful fashion, and softly blowing the breath
through his lips in a way that might have reached the dignity of a
whistle if it had had a trifle more of musicalness.

"Is them the sort of lessons you give in school?" he said at length
without stirring.

"Why?" said Mr. Linden with a little bit of a smile.

"Ingen-uous," said Mr. Simlins. "It's as good as a book, Mrs. Derrick,"
added he glancing up at the rocking chair, "is Squire Deacon wantin' to
buy your house?"

"My!" said Mrs. Derrick, again laying down her knitting, "can't he be
content with his own? I hope he don't want ours," she added, some fear
mingling with her surprise.

"Miss Faith," said Mr. Linden, "do you think if I gave you an apple you
would give me a knife?"

"I hope he don't," growled Mr. Simlins as he rose up. "I never heerd
that he did. Miss Faith--them Stoutenburgh Sweetings is good eatin'."
Faith after setting a pile of plates and knives o