door-step, Richard Elrod looked every inch a king of the soil and a
perfect specimen of the gentleman farmer of Kentucky.

"The richest man in the county," said Aunt Jane exultingly, as she
followed the vanishing carriage with her keen gaze. "He went to the
legislatur' last winter; the 'Hon. Richard Elrod' they call him now.
And I can remember the time when he was jest Milly Baker's boy, and
nothin' honorable about it, either."

There was a suggestion of a story in the words and in the look in Aunt
Jane's eyes. What wonder that the tides of thought flowed back into
the channel of old times on a day like this, when every passing face
was a challenge to memory? It needed but a hint to bring forth the
recollections that the sight of Richard Elrod had stirred to life. The
high-back rocker and the basket of knitting were transferred to the
porch; and with the beauty and the music of a spring morning around us
I listened to the story of Milly Baker's boy.

"I hardly know jest where to begin," said Aunt Jane, wrinkling her
forehead meditatively and adjusting her needles. "Tellin' a story is
somethin' like windin' off a skein o' yarn. There's jest two ends to
the skein, though, and if you can git hold o' the right one it's easy
work. But there's so many ways o' beginning a story, and you never
know which one leads straightest to the p'int. I wonder many a time
how folks ever finds out where to begin when they set out to write a
book. However, I reckon if I start with Dick Elrod I'll git through
somehow or other.

"You asked me jest now who Richard Elrod was. He was the son o' Dick
Elrod, and Dick was the son of Richard Elrod, the old Squire. It's
curious how you'll name two boys Richard, and one of 'em will always
be called Richard and the other'll be called Dick. Nobody ever would
'a' thought o' callin' Squire Elrod 'Dick,' he was Richard from the
day he was born till the day he died. But his son was nothin' but Dick
all his life; Richard didn't seem to fit him somehow. And I've noticed
that you can tell what sort of a man a boy's goin' to make jest by
knowin' whether folks calls him Richard or Dick. I ain't sayin' that
every Richard is a good man and every Dick a bad one. All I mean is
that there's as much difference betwixt a 'Dick' and a 'Richard' as
there is betwixt a roastin' ear and a peck o' corn meal. Both of 'em's
corn, and both of 'em may be good, but they ain't the same thing by a
long jump. There's been a Ric